


Just Breathe

by JayRain



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Connected Short Stories, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-11-28 13:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: Connected one-shots exploring scenes from theNew Magic and Old Godsseries, done in first person POV through Theo Trevelyan.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> The _New Magic and Old Gods_ series, following Theo Trevelyan and Dorian Pavus, is told exclusively in limited third person voice. When discussing character perspectives with Schattenriss, who writes exclusively in first person POV, it came up that I hadn't ever tried writing Theo in the first person. So this happened. Also, please go read Schattenriss's stuff, because it's absolutely fantastic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during Chapter 2 of "Fumbling Toward Who We Are"

 

When my father said I was supposed to serve the Chantry I don’t think he had this in mind.  Part of me also wondered if it was blasphemous to fire off a volley of arrows in a Chantry, but I suppose demons in a Chantry would be the greater of the evils being committed, so I nocked another arrow, drew, and let it fly into a wispy wraith that was about to attack the mage fighting off the onslaught.

I’d met more mages in the last few weeks than I ever had in my whole life, but this one was different.  He moved differently than the rebels, many of whom were Circle-trained.  He seemed much more relaxed and moved… well, kind of like I did in a fight: fluid, thoughtless, completely at ease with what he was doing.  Just now he turned and spied my hand and broke into a wide grin.  “Ah, the man with the hand!  Would you be so kind?” he asked, zapping a bolt of lightning at another demon and gesturing to the rippling rift in the center of the Chantry nave.

Seeing as I was literally the only one who could close it, I did as he asked.  The surge of power always surprised me; where did it come from?  The glowing mark on my hand didn’t seem to do much of anything, unless we were facing a rift.  Then it crackled to life and a line of energy connected me to the rifts.  Usually Cassandra, Solas, and Varric would fall into a rhythm of fighting off straggling demons and wraiths to allow me the time I needed to close it.  I still didn’t really know what happened when I did the closing, just that one moment a rift was open, the next, it had sealed.

Finally the wavering rift snapped closed and the last of the demons sank into the floor as if they’d never existed.  I wondered if I’d ever get used to it.  I shook my hand out; it tingled and my palm itched a little, but it didn’t hurt, and without the rift in the room it seemed to relax and settle down (if it could relax and settle down; only one person really knew anything about it, and the ‘anything’ he knew wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things).

The mage was looking at me.  I was starting to get used to that, as well-- the looking.  It was strange, after spending most of my life damn near invisible.  But he _saw_ me.  He didn’t see a weapon, or a disappointment (not the way the fucking Chantry people in Val Royeaux did.  I’m not bitter about that at all).  “How does it work?” he asked, and then he took two long strides and he was holding my hand, staring at the mark.

He didn’t just fight beautifully, he _was_ beautiful-- in a classical, artistic way, like a statue or something.  Everything about him was cultured and smooth.  Even his hands were warm and smooth, the palms lightly calloused from wielding a staff.  My mark reacted to his magic, sparking just a little bit and making Cassandra gasp.  The mage didn’t move.  “You don’t even know, do you.”  He looked up and smiled.  He had a lovely smile, the kind that made his eyes crinkle just a bit at the corners, and he was still holding my hand, and--

Maker’s hairy, fucking balls.  No.  No, no no.  I was here for a reason.  Get the mages on my side, close the breach, go… not home, but somewhere and settle down and pretend this had never happened.

He introduced himself as Dorian Pavus of Tevinter and he became exponentially more interesting; maybe it was the mage thing, maybe it was the forbidden draw of the dark land to the north, maybe it was just because he was so interesting to watch.  He waved his hands when he spoke; his eyes shone with absolute glee, and damn, if he wasn’t _smart_.  Not book-smart, not, can recite the Chant at the drop of a hat smart, but… I couldn’t explain it.  He wasn’t afraid of the things he knew, or of the ways magic worked.

Sometimes his eyes would land on me; it felt like he was talking to me.  Just me.  The tips of his mustache would quirk upward in a hint of a smile, but only when he was talking to me, and… fuck, was I blushing?  Could I play it off as the heat of battle?  Was it warm in here?  Just me?

“Herald?” Cassandra was asking, and then everyone was looking at me, and only Dorian Pavus was hiding a small smile and dammit I felt so young and stupid right then.  “Your plan for dealing with the rebel mages?”

I sat up straighter.  I had to look away from Dorian, but couldn’t get the image of that perfectly carved face out of my mind.  “Send word for Cullen and Leliana to join us.  I’ll be renting space at the inn this evening.”  And then I turned to Dorian Pavus.  “Thank you for your help.  Would you… if you need a place to stay, or if you could help us further, you’re welcome to… Um, yes, the tavern.”

His smile spread and yes, it was hot in here, and I think I was the only one still sweating from the heat of battle.  “If that is an invitation then I accept.  I wouldn’t say no to the offer of a bed,” he said, his eyes staring into me, his smile only slightly teasing. 

“Tevinter women probably fight to the death for a chance to sleep with him,” Varric said later, and I just nodded, because Varric was probably right. 

“Don’t tell me you’re already making up a character based on him,” I said. 

“Do _you_ want to be the hero who gets the girl?” Varric asked.

I tried not to laugh too hard.  Varric thought I just didn’t give myself enough credit, and I let him think that.  The world as we knew it could be ending; beliefs were being challenged left and right, and I didn’t feel like asking him if he’d ever thought about writing a novel where the hero gets the guy at the end.

Varric headed downstairs for a drink, and maybe to see what he could find out.  I didn’t know where anyone else was, and it would be some time before Leliana and Cullen got here.  I was on my own for pretty much the first time since well before the Conclave.  I had a chance to do whatever I wanted.

It probably wouldn’t lead anywhere, but I wanted to talk with Dorian Pavus.  Maybe the hero wouldn’t ever get the guy, but then again, I was no hero.


	2. Breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Set during chapter 10 of "Fumbling"_

Redcliffe was a quieter place this time around, without a horde of scared mages milling about.  But other than the quiet emptiness, little else had changed.  The air still smelled like fish and spindleweed; Lake Calenhad still stretched out, looking almost as endless as the ocean if you didn’t know any better.  It was a little cooler as autumn set in, but that was all.  But when I looked out around the village, from my vantage point perched on the hill outside of the Gull and Lantern, I felt like I was seeing it with different eyes.  Maybe Redcliffe hadn’t changed much in the last month and a half or so (Maker, it was easy to lose track of time), but me?  Yeah, I had definitely changed.

There was the title, for one, and the way people bowed and shied away from me.  Yeah, my hand was glowing, and I’d survived… what, three near death experiences?  (Conclave explosion, Corypheus attack, nearly freezing to death?  I guess those two can count as one, but… technicalities.  Sounds _much_ more badass to say I’ve almost died three times).  But I was still just Theo Trevelyan, right?  

When I thought of the huge organization building around me I had moments where I could hardly catch my breath, both from excitement and anxiety.  I was a no one, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I was no leader, and yet they called me the Inquisitor.  I was no fair or just ruler, and yet they sat me on a throne and told me to judge.  I didn’t have age or wisdom or experience.  I had a bow, a good aim, and wild luck that some might call reckless or supernatural.  

But I also had a wide circle of talented people around me, who for some reason or other believed I could do this, so that really helped.  And then there was Dorian.

I was the Inquisitor now; I should be thinking about the organization, and about strategies to defeat the enemy, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Dorian.  The way he spent all his time in the library, reading in that dusty alcove he’d carved out for himself with his usual flair and certainty.  The way he saw Theo, and not the Inquisitor.  The way he looked away quickly if I caught him glancing at me (and then I looked away equally quickly).  The way he looked so stricken, almost betrayed, when I’d given him Mother-fucking-Giselle’s letter.  The way he’d snapped at me and Maker’s ass it hurt; it brought up all those memories of my own father.  What would his grace Bann Trevelyan think if he saw his youngest son now?

He had to have heard by now; maybe he was embarrassed.  Maybe he was angry it wasn’t him, or one of his older sons.  Maybe he would, miracle of miracles, be proud of me for once.  Maybe if he showed up, he’d actually see me, rather than pretending I never existed in the first place.  I mean, I should have been grateful: the Inquisition was doing for me what I couldn’t do for myself and getting me out from under Father’s thumb.  And while the Chantry was involved, the appearance of our real enemy, Corypheus, made it clear that this was bigger than just a Chantry problem.  And maybe, with the bigger problem, the Chantry could stop trying to fuck with my life.

And the life of my friends, while they were at it.  I toyed with an arrow, running my finger over the fletching while I waited.  The Iron Bull had headed to one of the shops; he wasn’t happy about it, but when I asked him to give me and Dorian some time, he agreed.  He was another one to figure out.  Or not.  He’d told me right up front he was a spy for the Qunari, so I don’t think I ever would figure him out no matter how hard I tried.  He was probably watching from a distance, doing Quanri spy things, but at least he was giving me some space.

I heard the heavy front door of the tavern creak open and then close.  I jumped up and watched as Dorian stormed down the path and into the village.  I’ve always been quick and quiet, so it was easy to follow him without him seeing.  I worried for him.  The reaction he’d had about his father had hurt me, but after hearing Dorian lash out at his father, and hearing the whole story, I understood.  I really hadn’t known what I was stumbling into when I’d told Dorian it couldn’t hurt to meet with him, and I really hadn’t known that it _could_ hurt, and very much.

And then… Andraste’s flaming ass I should have been ashamed of myself, but I was also feeling giddy with relief.  Not that Dorian had left his father relatively unscathed, but… it’s almost embarrassing to say it… but that I had an _actual_ chance with him.  Not just, in another world, in another life, if I was a pretty Tevinter girl hypothetical chance.  

The water lapped at the dock.  It was a pleasant enough day, but the few clouds in the sky seemed to know to gather right over our heads.  Dorian would be dramatic enough to manage that.  I smiled, but it immediately faded when I got a good look at him.  

He leaned back against the weathered wood of the fishing hut, head back, staring at the rough roof.  He’d run his hands through his hair; he was always so styled and perfect that it was strange to see him with his hair all disheveled.  At any other time I’d think it dashing, making him look even handsomer, but now,  he was trying to breathe deeply and hold back his emotions.  Then he swore: something I’d never heard before, and would have to add to my vocabulary at some point, and on top of that, he punched the wall.  After that his shoulders sank and he seemed to wilt.

“Dorian?  Are you alright?” I jammed my hands in my pockets and watched him as he hurried to wipe his eyes.

He straightened up and leaned back, trying to look calm and put-together, but we both knew it was too late.  “Of course I’m alright.  I just had a lovely conversation with my father.  Why wouldn’t I be alright?”  His voice was sharp, but with just enough tightness in it that we both knew he wasn’t alright, and it wasn’t worth pointing out or arguing about.

I bit my lip and we stood in awkward silence.  “You got the last word,” I finally pointed out.

He _humphed_ , and his hair flopped on his forehead.  “At least he didn’t force me to return home.”

The thought of _anyone_ forcing Dorian to do _anything_ was so absolutely foreign that I almost laughed.  His eyes widened for a moment and I realized I’d moved a step or two closer to him. My heart pounded.  My legs somehow managed to support me, and I didn’t know how and didn’t question it.  “You’re an adult, Dorian.  No one can force you to do anything,” I said and dug the toe of my boot into the dirt.  I knew he was several years older than me, and had a wealth of life experience I hadn’t had.  It was hard enough to get my family to admit I was an adult; when paired next to Dorian, I felt like an inexperienced kid just trying to keep up.

He closed his eyes.  His eyelashes fluttered and I think my pulse did too, and dammit if that wasn’t the sappiest thing I’ve ever thought, and shouldn’t have been thinking right now.  “Living a lie, it festers inside of you,” he said at last.  I completely understood every word he said.  “You have to fight for who you are.”  He looked at me, such sadness in his pale eyes that it made my breath catch.  One side of his mouth quirked up, attempting to smile, and he was sadder than I could ever imagine him being.  Dorian was warm and sun and confidence and grace.  But right now he just looked so _tired_ from fighting all the time to maintain that.  “I’m not accustomed to such honesty, particularly from someone in such a position of power as yourself.”

There it was again, the power.   _It doesn’t change who I am, or how I feel,_ I thought, willing him to read my mind.  I never wanted to be in power.  I just wanted some control over my own life.

“Maker knows what you must think of me after that display.”  He looked away.  Sad.  Disappointed… with me?  With himself?

I shook my head and shuffled closer.  In the short time I’d known him Dorian didn’t _ever_ ‘do’ vulnerable.  He had a witty retort for everyone and everything.  “After that, I can’t possibly think _less_ of you… _more_ if possible,” I told him, and it was so true, truer than anything I’d ever told anyone.  To stand up to an overbearing father like that, to leave everything he had just to maintain his identity and his sense of self?

“The things you say.”  He wouldn’t look at me.

“I mean it.”   _Maker’s breath, please believe how much I mean it._  My hand was shaking.  It was moving.  It was touching Dorian’s flushed cheek and he wasn’t moving.  My chest tightened and I remembered to breathe because Dorian wasn’t moving away.  He hadn’t stiffened, he hadn’t slapped my hand out of the way, and I had to just breathe and go with it.  I leaned in.  What in the Void was I thinking?  

I leaned my forehead on his; I’d never noticed that I was taller than he was; maybe because I always slouched and he always stood so straight.  He closed his eyes.  I closed mine and ran my thumb over his perfect cheekbone.  His breath was warm on my lips.  I’d only ever kissed one man before because… well, there weren’t many options in Ostwick, and there certainly was never anyone quite like Dorian Pavus, who could make my heart beat faster and who could make me forget to breathe just by looking at me.

And then I fucked it up royally.

I held my breath.  Angled my head just so and kissed him.

No, I sort-of-kissed him.  Just brushed my lips over his, really, and the sheer shock of doing it nearly made me pass out, but I remembered that breathing is necessary to life.  But I still fucked it all up.  Here was where he slapped me, where he said “thanks but have you _seen_ yourself, and have you _seen me?_ ”  Here was where I should back away, but his lips twitched ever so slightly and his breath shuddered just a bit and I rested my other hand on his hip.

Suddenly he was kissing me, his perfectly curved, very experienced mouth on mine and maybe, just maybe I didn’t fuck anything up, which was even more miraculous than surviving an avalanche or blowing up the entire Conclave and walking away from it.  Dorian pulled me closer with a slight grunt and I braced myself against the rough wooden wall with one hand; it wouldn’t do to collapse on him and fuck it all up, when I’d managed to avoid that so far.  He swore again, probably in his first language.  “What are we doing?” he asked between kisses.

I was holding my breath; I was breathing too fast.  I was seeing stars; I was seeing the flecks of gold in Dorian’s grey eyes.  I wanted to fall over with giddy joy and relief but I just caught his lips in mine again for a moment.  “Whatever we’re doing, I like it,” I told him, the second truest thing I’d ever told anyone in my life.

“That’s good,” he said, his voice softer, and a bit shaky.  He met my gaze.  “Because I… rather like it as well.”  And then his lips were on mine again, and for that moment there was no Inquisition, no war, no Corypheus, no Chantry bullshit going on, it was just me and Dorian, kissing in a shabby fishing hut.

Eventually we had to face reality and leave Redcliffe.  There was an awkward distance between us, and Dorian kept casting this shy little glance my way.  The Iron Bull was waiting by the hitching posts with our horses.  He didn’t say anything, and his face was unreadable, but then again, spy-- like he’d let on about anything.  We mounted up and headed out without saying much, just enough to satisfy the Bull that we weren’t going to have pissed off Tevinter mages tracking us.

As we rode Bull did most of the talking.  I wanted to say something to Dorian, because now it was just weird, and I didn’t _want_ it to be weird with him, not after we’d shared such an ease with one another, sitting in the library or walking the grounds in Haven, or at Skyhold.   _He’s still thinking about what happened with his father,_ I thought.  That had to be it.  

But my mind kept coming back to the more likely reason: regardless of whether or not we both liked kissing each other… I fucked it up between us.  I was completely convinced of this as the absolute, Maker-inspired, Andraste-blessed Truth of the Matter, especially when Dorian volunteered to take first watch that night and ambled off to the edge of camp.

I tried to get some rest before my watch, but it’s hard to sleep when you’re convinced you’ve ruined any chance with someone so important to you.   _He was angry and upset about his asshole father, and you kissed him?  That’s how you help people deal with things?_

_That’s how I help Dorian deal with things…?_

I rolled over and stared at the glowing embers of the fire.  There was still some time before my watch, but I couldn’t sleep at all.  And if I was going to see through this whole Inquisitor thing, I had to grow up and do the unpleasant things.  Even if that meant hearing Dorian say, “Why yes, Theodane, you did fuck this up quite spectacularly.”

Long story short, that didn’t happen.  In fact, he kissed me again and asked me some hard questions to think over, but it was fair.  He left me to do my watch and think things over, but to be fair, I was thinking about Dorian.


	3. Flashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Set during chapter 27 of Fumbling._

_ Your Tevinter lover will be next. _

_ FLASH _

_ Beg for your life.   _

_ FLASH _

_ His head will join your hand.   _

_ FLASH _

_ You will die.   _

_ Blood, so much blood.  Green glow.  Sword hovering over my hand.  Green light.  Blinding.  Screaming.  More blood.   _

I cracked open my eyes, expecting the flashes of light to continue, but for once the blinding waves of light were all in my head.  With my eyes open it was dim.  Gloomy.  It took a moment to realize I was conscious again; I didn’t know how long I’d been out.  It could have been moments, it could have been an hour or more.  But first and foremost: I was alive.  Andraste’s  _ ass _ , I should be dead.  

It hit me harder than I would have liked to admit.   _ I.  Should.  Be.  Dead _ .  

It was hard to breathe.  That was the first thing I had to do.  Just breathe.  Couldn’t get a decent breath through my nose-- probably broken, probably too much blood.  Couldn’t get a decent breath through my mouth, started to panic… then tasted blood and ash and musty cloth and tugged the rag out of my mouth.  Gasped for air.  The air tasted strange; no other way to describe it.  A tang of dark magic of some sort, and charred meat.  But it was air and it was in my lungs, which burned and ached, but I was alive even though I shouldn’t be.

I stared at the gloom for a long time after that, just breathing, just hurting, just feeling.  What are you supposed to feel when you should be dead, but you’re not?  Grateful, I guess?

Pale sunlight managed to shine through some of the cracks in the ceiling and through the boarded up windows.  My left hand glowed.   _ Look!   _ It seemed to say, which was… strange.  Scary.  I remembered the violent flashes.  The green mark on my hand that the Venatori had wanted so much?  It felt different now.  Like whatever they’d done to me had woken it.

_ Look. _  I blinked.  The floor was coated in tacky blood.  There were shadows and shapes scattered over the floor.  I took a deep breath and pushed myself up.  I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I already did, but if I’d learned anything in my time with the Inquisition, it’s that anything is possible-- especially if I’m involved.  

I clenched my jaw and got my elbow under me.  I tried to swallow the cry building inside and then realized no one was around who would give a fuck if the Inquisitor was crying.  I didn’t think about what I was setting my hand in.  I tried not to think about how sick I felt.  I held my left hand in front of me, using the light of the mark to see--

I threw up.  There wasn’t much in my stomach, but whatever was there came up and I think I passed out again; maybe I just blacked out for a moment, either way when I opened my eyes again I was back on the floor. 

_ You’re the fucking Inquisitor.  Get up, NOW. _  I’d had a lot of personal coaching from Josephine and Cullen, and I’d already had a couple instances where I’d had to force myself to keep going, keep moving in spite of what my body wanted, and now was one of those times.  I wasn’t dead even though I should be; but I was still here in this place and surrounded by nearly a dozen dead bodies in various states of flayed dismemberment.  Blood spattered the walls; splintered bones were strewn over the floors.

It came in flashes: the scimitar dropping down.  The blinding green light.  The Fade itself tearing apart.  The explosion knocked me back into a wall--probably another reason I was so sore, I’d be lucky if my back wasn’t broken from that force--and the tongues of green light licked at the Venatori.  Wherever the tongues licked, the flesh and muscle disappeared.  They screamed until the light strangled them, sucking them into the Fade piece by piece.  

I leaned back against the wall and stared at my  hand.  I traced over the mark with my fingers.  It looked like a slash of green light, but the skin wasn’t torn.   _ This  _ had nearly gotten me killed?  The gashes up my left forearm stung and throbbed in time with my pulse, and moving around had opened the wounds again.  I held my bleeding arm close to my body.  I was shaking, but it wasn’t cold in here.  The shivering didn’t stop.  It hurt all over: throbbing pain, flashes of memory, dark blots of reality.  Dead body pieces in pools of sticky blood.  

I did that.

I looked at my hand once more.  I tried to stop shivering.  I tried to take deep breaths.  I didn’t do that, the fucking mark did.  It saved me.  Or… it saved itself.  

Then Dorian was there in front of me, hands warm on my shoulders.  He stared into my eyes and I think I looked back but all I could think about, really, at the time was the mark on my hand.  “It saved me,” I told him in a raw, hoarse voice.  I must have been gargling with acid or something.  Dorian looked away for a moment and said something I didn’t really catch-- the roar in my ears muffled his voice.

He pulled me close to him and it  _ hurt _ but Andrate’s flaming teats, this was  _ Dorian _ and he was here with me, real and solid and as much as the pain in my ribs made breathing so, so hard I couldn’t let go.  “I’m getting blood on you,” I told him, and he laughed softly.  

“That is the absolute least of my worries right now, Amatus.”  He pulled away, only slightly, enough to look me over and that may have been worse than anything else that had happened (besides the almost dying part) because he was, as always, so…  _ Dorian _ .  Groomed, put together, coiffed… a peacock among pigeons was how I’d thought of him back at Haven, and then thinking of back then, before we were anything more than acquaintances, and now he was here calling me Amatus, whatever that meant (but he said it with such conviction, and the  _ look _ in his eyes whenever he said it…)

“Out,” I wheezed.  “Get me out.”

He didn’t stop to think about what I was covered in; he helped me to my feet, and I nearly fell over, but he caught me.  I never stopped to think how strong he actually was, which for a mage was pretty impressive.  Maybe he was using magic to help.  Maybe he…

Dorian was kneeling on the floor of a carriage and he’d flung his cloak over me.  Leliana was with him and they were talking and I wanted to tell them that I was fine now, I just needed to…

Dorian and Leliana dragged me up the stairs.  Apparently Bull offered to carry me and Dorian wouldn’t let him.  There was arguing and I tried to smile but my lip stung and then I fell back on the bed and…

“I’ve run you a bath, if you’re up for it?”

Dorian played with a small glass vial. It wasn’t like him to fidget.  “What… what did you give me?” I asked, swallowing.

“A basic healing potion.  It won’t do much more than dull the pain, but it’s a start.  Let me help you clean up?”  He held out his hands to help me up.  I wanted to inhale sharply at the pain in my chest, but… well that didn’t happen.  I saw stars and nearly fell back again but Dorian caught me.  I tried to get my shirt off; my hands wouldn’t stop trembling.  Dorian pulled out my pocket knife and started to cut away my clothes.  “I believe we’ll have these burned, yes?” Dorian asked as he worked, and I couldn’t even find the energy to be embarrassed by what he was seeing.  So I just nodded.  Sure, burn them all.  Get rid of them....

“I didn’t like that shirt anyway.”  Maybe I did.  It was unrecognizable now.  Like me.

Dorian rested his hand on my cheek; it hurt, because someone had hit me hard across the face at some point.  But I let him touch me.  I let him be my tether to reality.  “You’re safe, love,” he said, meeting my gaze.  “Please believe me?”

I nodded.  Safe.  Safe in this unfamiliar room, with people outside of these walls who wanted to kill me, all because my hand glowed (all because of a stupid accident in the first place)... What did it mean to be safe anymore?  I nodded again.  I had to convince Dorian I believed him.  I couldn’t believe him though because the Venatori wanted him dead, too.  I kept nodding until Dorian pulled me into a gentle embrace and helped me to my feet.

I swayed, and he helped steady me again.  “One step at a time,” he said, his arm around my waist, and my arm over his shoulders.  “We have all the time we need.  Just breathe.”

Just breathe.  That was the only thing he wanted me to do.  “I can do that,” I told him.

He squeezed my hand, heedless of the dormant green mark on it.  “I know you can.”


	4. Grin and Bear It

Cullen and Cassandra assured me that I would be fine, and while I wanted to believe them, there was that lingering doubt whispering in the back of my mind, telling me all the things I knew about myself that others seemed to see beyond:  _ you’re no leader, _ that whisper told me.   _ Who do you think you are, to lead these people?  You’re nobody.  This is all a mistake.   _ And of course that last one was what stuck like a thorn, digging into me with a sharp, curved edge that made pulling it out even more painful.

But Cullen had the maps, already marked.  Leliana had sent out her scouts and assured me that we’d have regular reports and wouldn’t be going in blind.  Josephine assured me she’d been writing every noble to let them know of the Inquisition’s passage through their lands, and given all we’d initially done in the Hinterlands before now, many of them owed us.  What they couldn’t pay in coin, they could pay in favors, she said.  I had Varric and Hawke going with me, two people who had been in these conditions before, and knew what they were looking for.  I had the Iron Bull going with me: solid muscle with no tolerance for druffalo shit, and a brilliant mind on top of it.

And Dorian had agreed to come along, which was at once terrifying and exciting.

I hadn’t been looking forward to a few weeks away from Skyhold, first because I was finally home.  And second, because I honestly enjoyed talking with Dorian, and I  _ think _ he enjoyed talking with me.  I didn’t want to lose that (and if I’d seen the number of attractive men in and around Skyhold, Dorian probably had too--he’s far more observant than I am).  

But I didn’t have to worry about that, thanks to the undead population roaming Crestwood.  I knew Dorian was a powerful mage, but I hadn’t realized that he could command the dead.  Or something like that; just one more thing to ask him about, and thinking about it made me smile.

“Good morning, Inquisitor Trevelyan,” came the calm, lilting voice of Mother Giselle, interrupting my Dorian-filled thoughts as I worked on saddling my horse.  Yes, I had stablehands falling over one another to do it for me, but I’ve always loved riding and tending to my horses.  “I woke early to pray for your success on this mission, and am pleased I found you before you departed.”  She bowed her head, her hands folded before her.

“Um, thanks,” I told her, because it was a nice gesture, and far easier than telling her where I really stand on the whole religion thing.

“The people of Crestwood are in dire need of the Maker’s blessing,” she continued, even as I undid the crossties and started to lead my horse out of the stable.  Golden morning light filled the courtyard, and my horse whickered in soft annoyance while I squinted. “It will be good for them to see the Herald of Andraste coming to them in their time of need.”

I just nodded and forced a smile and wished she would go away.  No, I didn’t remember what happened in the Fade when I walked out of it… or was pushed out.  I don’t remember if it was Andraste or a ghost or spirit or my own stubbornness shoving me back into the real world.  And since I believe in the Maker about as much as I believe in myself, well, I was very uncomfortable with the whole title in general.  

Across the courtyard the Iron Bull and Varric were chatting, and my stomach jumped a little bit when I saw Dorian descending the stone staircase.  Varric shook his head and pulled out a small purse, which he handed over to the Bull.  I made a mental note not to bet against the Bull under any circumstances.

“Inquisitor, if I could have one more moment of your time before you depart?” Mother Giselle asked.  She’d dropped her voice a bit, and spoke more quickly.  

I glanced back at my traveling party: they were already mounting up.  Bull practically needed a draft horse to support him.  And though it was rude, I mounted up.  “One moment, Mother Giselle; we really do need to make the most of the daylight,” I told her, and it took everything in me not to nudge my horse into a slow plod.

“Yes, of course,” she said, only after following my line of sight to my traveling party, and narrowing her eyes when she saw Dorian.  “I… happened to find myself in correspondence regarding the young man from Tevinter; I don’t suppose he’s told you why he’s no longer in his homeland?”

When she said things like this, in this way: phrased so polite, so concerned, and yet clear that she knew more than me, I couldn’t help but bristle.  This time I did loosen the reins and if my horse took a step or two, well.  You can hardly blame him.  “That’s his business, Mother,” I told her, glancing down and letting my horse continue his slow plod.  And yes, I felt a twinge of glee when she realized I would not be reining him in, and had no intention of stopping.  We  _ were  _ on a schedule after all.

“His family desires to meet with him,” she said, keeping pace.  Impressive.  Though all that wandering around the Hinterlands, helping refugees and all, probably helped.

I swallowed against the sour tasted rising in my throat.  “Did you tell Dorian this?”

She paused and bowed her head, and I sighed and stopped my horse.  “The young man wishes little to do with the Chantry.  Though he seems to be in your good graces and may listen to you.”  She pulled an envelope out of her sleeve.  “The retainer is waiting in Redcliffe.  It would be a blessing to his family to be reunited with their son,” she added and tucked the envelope into my saddlebag, before raising her hand and bowing, offering the Maker’s blessing.  I twisted in my saddle to hand the letter back to her, but she’d already disappeared into the stables.

“Inquisitor!  You coming, or are we going to wait here in the mud all day?” Bull called.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Inquisitor.  I wasn’t the kid from Ostwick anymore, who had to let the Chantry dictate my life.  I didn’t  _ like _ Mother Giselle’s meddling, but I could just grin and bear it until we left the confines of Skyhold.  Besides, Dorian was watching me.

I nudged my horse into a trot and headed for the drawbridge.  “Last one out the gate makes dinner at camp tonight,” I called, and urged the horse into a gallop.  I heard Bull bellow a curse; Varric laughed; and then one set of hooves behind me.  When I looked back, it was Dorian.  He rode well, and soon overtook me.  When we got to the end of the bridge, our horses’ breath steaming in the cold morning, he grinned.

“I do hate cooking,” he said.

I grinned, but I was definitely bearing this much better than Mother Giselle.  I thought of her letter, shoved into my saddlebag.  It could wait.


	5. Could Be Worse

There could be worse ways to go; I’d actually seen some of them in the last month.  Red lyrium poisoning; jagged sword wounds that left guts spilling in the roadway; ravaged by demons from the Fade; infections that left skin blackened and smelling of rot and hopelessness.  Being eaten by a dragon in a last defiant stand against a mad monster would at least be quick.  Painful, of course.  I’d never seen a dragon up close, let alone one with the haze of red lyrium smoking off its skin.  Still better than Corypheus.

But then the last trebuchet was wound and ready to go.  Corypheus stared at me with his glowing red madman eyes and his dragon’s smoking nostrils flared, and the thought of giving into that made anger stronger than the pain.  I didn’t care that my arm was useless: broken, hanging out of the socket, hand numb and waves of pain rolling from shoulder to fingertips.  “Kneel,” Corypheus demanded in his crushed gravel voice.

I kicked the trebuchet instead.  In retrospect I don’t know what I was thinking.  I probably wasn’t.  Like the time I attempted to run away from home, just acted in the moment without a plan and without a care for the consequences.

The first rumbling broke the stillness of the night.  The dragon looked up and saw the one thing bigger than itself: the mountain, trembling, cracking, sliding toward us like a tidal wave of snow.   _ What did I do this time? _ I thought as I stared at the wave of white rushing toward Haven.  Toward me.  The dragon beat its wings, lifting off into the starry night, a red glow against a black sky.  Funny what details you notice when you’re about to die violently.  But again, there could be worse ways to go, and I  _ had _ seen many of them.

“Let mine be the last sacrifice,” I whispered and closed my eyes.

The rumbling intensified.  I couldn’t feel my hands or feet.  The lined leather coat I’d thrown on for our victory celebration wasn’t particularly well-suited to an avalanche.  Not like I’d been expecting to be buried in snow.  And it wouldn’t be so bad.  Shiver a bit, fall asleep, stop breathing.  Definitely could be worse.  

But because I’m me, I couldn’t seem to give in that easily; as the rumbling intensified I stumbled through the snow even though I’d never be able to outrun it.  If I could even just get to the Chantry and maybe find those tunnels…

And then the snow caught me: too fast, too heavy to feel the cold.  So this was how it ended.

But because I’m me, it didn’t end.  My foot went through rotten boards and I fell: wind whistling through my ears, even over the roar of the snow overhead.  I hit the icy ground hard; my broken left arm broke some more, and the rumbling avalanche drowned out my yelling.

Eventually it grew quiet.  I was still breathing.  I was cold, but I could still move.  It was dark, but my left hand still sparked acid-green and lit the area around me.  I was alive.  Again.  Lucky, again.   _ Write to your family, _ I thought.  _ Let them know you’re alive and well-- or, sort of well.  Make peace with them.  Find the rest of the Inquisition and thank Cullen for helping get people to safety.  Find Dorian and tell him how you feel.  Maybe wheedle a heating spell out of him. _

I couldn’t help but feel like I had a second chance.  Or maybe a third.  I was losing count.  Didn’t matter though. What did matter was I wasn’t going to freeze to death in these tunnels.  My arm dangled at my side.  It actually  _ did _ dangle (luckily by now the cold had numbed it up a bit).  I always thought it was a quaint turn of phrase, but I made the mistake of looking at my left arm: all odd angles, the shoulder sloping strangely.  I took a moment to lean against a chilly tunnel wall and get my breath while I waited for the dizziness to pass.  Then I started walking.

To say it was slow going would be inaccurate.  The sparking mark on my hand wasn’t a steady, constant light: more like a bile-colored torch that flickered and sometimes faded out completely.  It only illuminated so far ahead of me.  I walked slowly and fell on a patch of ice at one point.  I wasn’t sure if getting up was tough because of my numb legs or the soreness of my arse, or because I only had one functioning arm, and even that was getting harder to work with.

I counted my steps as I went, trying to focus on the act of thinking so I didn’t have to feel how cold I was.   _ There are worse ways to go; Haven’s gone, so you could just curl up here and everyone would think you died in that avalanche.  By the time they find your body you’d be unrecognizable.  Just a pile of frozen bones. _

Lost count of my steps.  Just start over.  Right foot one, left foot two.  Right foot three, left foot four.

_“I’m not saying goodbye you know.”_ _Dorian swigging away at the wine, staring at me while I tried to make the hardest decision I’ve ever made.  What could have happened if I didn’t die?_ _  
__Not dead yet._ _Lost count again, shit.  Focus, Theo, focus._  Had to start over.  Left one, this time.  Right one?  No, two… 

I gave up on counting and just put one foot in front of the other for hours on end.  The tunnels could go all the way through the Frostbacks for all I knew.  I could end up in Orlais.

Except I ended up in the snow.

After the silence of the tunnels the soft whisper of the wind sounded like howling wolves.  Or maybe there were wolves out here.  Again, there were worse ways to go, but mauled by starving wolves was pretty high up on the list, if I were to be keeping a list of that sort of thing.  

I think I saw footprints and wagon tracks: they were filling in with the snow, but I followed that direction.  It was better than freezing in the tunnels.  And this way the storytellers could say I made a brave attempt at survival.  Right foot, left foot.  Just keep breathing.  Just keep stepping.  Past a fire pit (full of cold black ash, but not yet buried--good sign).  Keep walking, keep breathing.  I couldn’t feel my left arm anymore.  Probably for the best.

Uncle Declan once spent some time serving a Chantry in Nevarra.  He told me about one of the templars: a man named Leonhard Leitner, a  _ very _ distant cousin multiple times removed from the Pentaghast family.  He’d spent his pre-templar years hunting dragons and had taken down many threats.  Dragonlings, mostly, that hadn’t had the opportunity to grow to high dragons; he also took down a vicious drake and a couple of full-grown wyverns.  He said his family deemed it necessary to send him to the Chantry so he wouldn’t upstage the Pentaghasts, dragon hunters of great fame (I was going to have to ask Cassandra if we could kill a dragon together).  Uncle Declan said he’d even shown him the teeth, and the scale mail he’d had made.  But it wasn’t a dragon or drake that killed Leonhard Leitner.  It was a fennec.  A fennec ran out in front of his horse on his way to collect an apostate, and his horse spooked and bolted.  Leonhard fell hard, rolling into a rocky ravine and cracking open his head and dying.

Like I’ve said: there are worse ways to go.  Though right now, death by rogue fennec wouldn’t seem half bad.  Survive the Conclave blast  _ and _ Corypheus, only to freeze to death in the Frostback mountains?

I don’t know when I realized I wasn’t walking anymore.  But I also wasn’t cold.  I wasn’t anything, really.  Everything was grey: soft, muted… could definitely have been worse.  Maybe I  _ would  _ be the last sacrifice.  Maybe I would survive all the craziness at Haven, just to become another frozen casualty in the Frostbacks.  Maybe Dorian should have said goodbye, and maybe I should have said goodbye to my parents instead of riding off without a backward look.  A lot of maybes and shoulds.  A lot of things that didn’t matter, because there was nothing I could do about any of it except float in this grey void.   _ Was _ this the Void?  I thought it would be worse.

Someone called my name.  Someone moved me.  Something started me feeling again.  Some heat, some faint dragonfly-wing tingle of magic surging through my skin and into my body.  I was moving, but it wasn’t me doing the moving.  It didn’t matter.  I’d be gone soon enough.

Except I wasn’t.  Every so often I’d feel the faint flicker of warmth in me; each time it seemed to thaw something, leaving that part to shiver and shake.  The cold was back.  I almost wished for the nothingness again, that numb, comfortable emptiness.  No amount of blankets could ease the chill.  Warmed rocks didn’t help.  Only that flutter of warm magic seemed to help, because it worked from the inside out.  Now I really understood what it meant to be chilled to the bone.  It wasn’t a quaint turn of phrase.  It was a real thing, and it was awful.

And here I’d thought there were worse ways to go.

Later, much,  _ much _ later Dorian confessed to pretty much saving me by keeping me warm from the inside out.  He said it was because he needed to do his part to save the as-yet-unofficial Inquisitor.

_ Much, MUCH _ later than  _ that  _ he confessed he’d had far more selfish reasons.  And besides, he said, “I didn’t say goodbye.”  And when he told me that, we were snuggled under a pile of blankets and furs, with a roaring fire going in the hearth.  

Mother Giselle recently let it slip that she thought Dorian would be the death of me.

“That’s fine,” I finally told her.  “There are worse ways to go.”


	6. Stay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Set during chapter 21 of "Fumbling"_

I have this strange luck.  I’d never thought of it as strange, but after surviving an avalanche, an encounter with an ancient darkspawn and his pet dragon, and two physical trips to the Fade, I suppose it  _ is _ strange.  I don’t think about it much, because that means I have to think about that luck running out.  It has to some day, it’s just the law of averages.  But I wasn’t lucky enough that a Fade rift would open up and swallow me alive the moment my father showed up and stood before my throne-- _ my THRONE-- _ and offered an alliance and Ostwick’s support.

Most of my closest friends knew there was history, but only Dorian really knew the  _ history _ .  Given that he too has quite the issues with his own father, he understood.  I wanted to find him in the crowd of onlookers murmuring about everything from my decision to execute Erimond, to what I’d decided to wear (like I care what I wear when sentencing executions?) to my hair (yes.  I need a haircut.  Dorian reminds me daily).  But I didn’t look.  I just stared at and through my father.  I let him talk.  I fell back on Josephine’s tutoring; it was her words coming out of my mouth, her even tone of voice that assured everyone that they’d be heard in turn, and that the Inquisition would be pleased to hear them out.

Josephine’s strict tutelage had made me the Inquisitor, and it was the Inquisitor who agreed to consider Bann Trevelyan’s gracious proposal.  It was the Inquisitor who rose from the oversized dragon maw throne (looks impressive; hideously uncomfortable).  It was the Inquisitor who thanked the gathered crowd and gracefully exited the hall.  But it was Theodane the third son, Alick and Cordelia’s mistake, who closed the door to his quarters and slid down the wall and sat on the stone floor, staring at the high rafters and trying to take deep breaths into his suddenly too-small lungs.

A tentative knock sounded on the door behind me and my chest tightened again.  I held my breath, the way I used to when I was a kid and didn’t want to be found.  Another knock and I hugged my knees to my chest.  I was five years old all over again, being shoved off on a tutor while my father waited for me to be old enough to shove over to the Chantry.

“Theodane?” Dorian called, voice muffled by the heavy wooden door.

The tension flowed out of me, leaving me feeling boneless and shaky.  I pushed to my feet and opened the door a crack.  He peered in, just one sliver of his handsome face visible.  He stared at me with one pale grey eye, which searched my face.  “If I need to sleep out here tonight I will. Thought I would put me in a foul mood.”  The corner of his eye crinkled a bit.  “It would be entirely your fault.”

“Your hair would never survive,” I told him and opened the door to allow him access.  “Did you bring wine?”  I was going to need it.

“ _ Venhedis,” _ he swore.  “Had I known it was going to be expected of me… I can come back with some?”  But he was smiling, daring me to call his bluff and send him away.

I held out my hand.  He took it.  I always love the warmth and the light buzz of his magic beneath his skin.  “I’ll send for some,” I promised. Dorian pulled me into a tight hug and kicked the door closed behind us.  His buzzing mana surged slightly and the lock  _ snicked _ into place. “Only until the wine arrives,” he promised, pulling away and brushing my hair off my forehead.  “Would you care to talk about it?”

If anyone was going to understand my issues with my father it was Dorian.  My advisors only saw the potential for strengthening our forces and alliances.  What alliance could be better than that between the Inquisitor and his homeland, after all?  We headed up the stairs.  “You haven’t been up here before, have you,” I said suddenly, and Dorian shook his head.

“We were aiming for the utmost in discretion before,” he reminded me.  “And we still could, if you thought it prudent,” he added, clearing his throat.

“ _ You _ were always the one insisting on  _ prudence _ ,” I reminded him.  “Though after the Western Approach, it may be  _ prudent _ if you were to stay here more often,” I hinted.  And damn, if my heart didn’t skip a beat when I remembered that night together, all sweaty limbs and warm mouths and tongues.

Dorian didn’t answer right away, which is unlike him. Once again anxiety settled into my stomach.  He followed me into my cavernous quarters, across the Orlesian silk rugs over the stone floors, right out onto the balcony overlooking the mountains, kissed golden by the afternoon sun.  I know he hates the cold, but he still stood behind me and wrapped his arms around me.  We stared out over the sharp mountain peaks in silence for a moment.  He rested his chin on my shoulders and clasped his hands against my chest.  “So?”

He pulsed a warming spell into the both of us, shielding us from the chill, and again I remembered just what he’d given up trying to save me from freezing.  “Even then?” I’d asked.  “Even then,” he always said.

So I told him just how I’d felt.  I let it out in a breathless torrent of words, afraid that he’d stop me from speaking, or that he’d try to rationalize my father’s actions, or, Maker forbid, insist I see things from his side now.  But he didn’t.  The only thing he did say was, “Perhaps we can take this inside, love?” with a slight nudge.

It made me think, again, about that night together in Griffon Wing Keep, when I’d decided that I truly did love Dorian.  And how if we survived, I’d tell him that.  Well, not only had we survived Adamant, but far more than that, and I still had yet to tell him.  There was always this fear that buzzed just under my skin, the way his magic buzzed under his, that he would admonish me; tell me that what he had wasn’t love,  _ couldn’t _ be love.  And that fear kept me silent, on the edge and screaming inside about just how much I actually  _ did _ love him.

We did argue a bit later on, about how he firmly believed I had to face my father by myself, and not just for Josephine’s sake (who would have me eviscerated publicly if I executed my plan of barricading myself in my quarters until my father left), but because it was what I needed to do. “You’ve done amazing things already,” Dorian told me, holding me close and amusing the both of us by juggling multicolored wisps with one hand.  His control over his magic was impeccable, so precise that it appeared thoughtless: which meant it required a great deal of effort.  I knew from shooting that, the easier you made a shot look, the more control and effort it required.  “How much more could you do if you didn’t have this fear holding you back?”

He spoke truly; he always did, with me.  He never glossed over anything or told me what he thought I wanted to hear.  If only he knew how much I also feared losing him--and even worse, losing him to my own stupidity.

By then blue-purple dusk was falling, and he let his wisps float up toward the ceiling like rainbow-colored fireflies that hovered over us.  “So what now, my dear?” he asked.  He kept his voice even, but I knew him so well by now; I detected the way he tried to cover up the huskiness and the teasing tones he sometimes had.  “Dinner, and then I’ll retire to my quarters?”

“Yes to the first, no to the second.”  I rolled onto my back and pulled him up against me this time.  “It… was really rather pleasant sharing space with you back at the Keep,” I ventured, heart racing.  Dorian made a small hum of agreement.  “And not just because we were…”

“Making passionate love on the eve of battle?”

My cheeks burned even hotter and I felt Dorian smile.  “Yes.  Though I did enjoy that quite a bit, and wouldn’t mind a repeat,” I told him.

Dorian stretched out, long and lazy like a cat.  His eyes were even half closed, and he had the smallest smile peeking out under his mustache. “That could be arranged,” he purred, running a hand along my thigh.

His touch was electric--really--I think he lets out the tiniest zaps of lightning magic when he touches me.  I don’t know if he does it intentionally, or if it’s reflexive and it just happens when he’s feeling amorous.  There’s so little I still understand about how magic works, let alone about a mage’s relationship to their magic.

He knew just where to touch me to make me relax, and I don’t even mean pleasurably.  He knew where tension collected and turned my muscles into hard knots, and where to channel just a little bit of electricity to lessen the ache in my neck and lower back.  He just knew me, in a way no one else ever could.

Which of course reminded me of my father, roaming around Skyhold with Josephine, congratulating himself on his youngest son’s success… or worse.  I groaned.

Dorian flopped down next to me again.  “Something wrong?”

“Mother Giselle.”

He stiffened up.  When he spoke, his voice had gone several degrees cooler and his demeanor brittle enough to snap.  “What of our blessed mother?”

“I’d bet you, Varric,  _ and _ Bull, all at once, that she and my father found one another and are praising Andraste and the Maker for all of this,” I told him.  I grabbed a pillow and pulled it over my head.  If I pressed down long and hard enough maybe I could fall through the bed, through the floor, through the keep and deep into the ground where I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.

Dorian pried my fingers off the edges of the pillow and pulled it off my head.  “Theodane.”  I sighed and glanced over at him.  He means business when he uses my full name.  “Why does it matter what they think?  You know better than anyone just how much you personally have accomplished, and you know just who has been involved in your successes.  Why does it matter what your father and the Mother Hen believe?” That made me laugh, and some of the tension dissipated.  “ _ I _ believe in you,” he continued.  “I’d like to see you believe in yourself.”

“I don’t deserve you.”  I really don’t.  I was a horrible twat to him after the Fade and Adamant, and he didn’t deserve  _ that _ , and yet, here he is.

“Are you so sure of that,  _ Amatus?” _ he asked, and before I could ask him just what that meant, his mouth was on mine.  I wrapped my arms around his neck.  Closed my eyes.  Focused on Dorian, how he felt in my arms, how he tasted and how he smelled.  How relaxing it was to be here, hidden away in my quarters where we could be together without anyone barging in or interrupting us, and how much nicer it would be if this could be the norm.

I won’t bore anyone with the details, except to say that I had to rush to pull on clothes when a servant rang with dinner and two bottles of wine. To her credit she didn’t even raise an eyebrow at my untucked shirt, bare feet, and mussed up hair, nor did she question me when I insisted on bringing the tray up myself.

I almost dropped it when I saw Dorian lounging against the bolsters, more relaxed than I’d ever seen him before.  The blankets pooled around his waist, his usually perfect hair stuck up in sweaty spikes, and his eyelids drooped.  When he heard me set the tray down, he straightened up and flicked his wrist toward the hearth.  The fire came to life, brightening the room once more.  I hadn’t realized just how dusky it had gotten. “Your drapes are terrible,” he said after another moment of silence.  “Too heavy and dull for such a view, though I suppose they keep the cold out some.”

“I’m hardly here enough to notice,” I told him.  “What would you change them to?”

“Something green.  To match your eyes.”  My heart skipped once.  “Though don’t get me wrong.  I’m not suggesting mutual domesticity.”

I pulled off my shirt once more and kicked off my trousers.  I burrowed into the covers and snugged up next to him.  “Why not?” I finally asked.  I ran my hand over his chest and his skin broke out into gooseflesh.  “I know you’ve said in Tevinter this sort of thing isn’t exactly accepted, but this isn’t Tevinter.”  I kissed his jaw and trailed my lips down his neck.

“Not fair,” he murmured, resting his hand atop mine.  “You’re distracting me from my decision.”

“You can always change your mind.”  Another kiss, more gooseflesh.  

He pulled away ever so slightly.  “Theo, what are we doing?”

The last time he’d asked me that I hadn’t known.  I only knew I liked it.  We’d been through far more since then, things that had nearly killed us, things that made me realize just how much I couldn’t stand the thought of losing Dorian.  “I’m asking you to stay.  That’s what I’m doing,” I told him, leaning in and pulling him back into my arms.  Now that I’d said it (and to be honest I’d been longing to say it even before we went off to the Western Approach) I knew I wanted that more than anything--even more than stopping Corypheus.  I looked around the large room, with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the mountains, with the roaring fire in the hearth; and the man next to me who supported my decisions, who kept me grounded, and who made my heart race.  I wasn’t leading the Inquisition to please my father or to impress Mother Giselle; I was trying to stop Corypheus so I could settle down and make a go at a life with Dorian.

“I can’t just move in here,” he protested.

I pushed the blankets out of the way and straddled his lap.  “Why not?” I challenged.  My pulse raced, but I wanted, no, needed this more than he knew.  “People have been talking since before we were officially together.  People won’t ever stop talking.  I love… the idea of you being here with me,” I finished, swallowing my fear when his eyes widened slightly at the mention of the word ‘love’.

He rested his hands on my thighs and stared up into my eyes.  “Now what did  _ I _ do to deserve  _ you?” _ he asked.  I smiled and shrugged.

We took some time to nibble on dinner, and I didn’t press the issue with Dorian.  I knew by now that he was someone who needed the facts to make a decision.  He was patient and thoughtful, where I just dove in headlong and hoped for the best.  In fact, I made myself remain silent on that issue for the rest of the night, instead doing all I could to show Dorian just how much I appreciated him.  He returned the favor.

I slept well that night: better than any night I’d ever spent in Skyhold, but I still woke with the sun.  Dorian slept beside me, eyelids fluttering with his dreams. His hair stuck out at strange, un-Dorian-like angles and the golden morning sun warmed his dark skin all the more.  He looked beautiful, but not the way he usually does, all perfectly coiffed and manicured and styled.  His vulnerability was more beautiful than any of that. He put on such a perfect façade for the world, but with me, he let down that guard.  With me, he was just Dorian.

I wasn’t looking forward to today.  I had my father to face and an execution to oversee.  I watched Dorian sleep a little while longer.  “Please stay?” I whispered, brushing his hair off his forehead.  He stirred a little but didn’t wake.  

I quietly dressed and then rearranged the covers over Dorian; I know how much he hates the cold.  I didn’t want to leave him, but I wanted to gather my thoughts and feelings before I had to be the Inquisitor again.  At least for last night I had been Dorian’s  _ Amatus _ .  I didn’t know what  _ it  _ meant, but the way his eyes shone when he said that, I knew  _ he  _ meant  _ it _ .

Whatever I had to face today, at least, hopefully, tonight I’d retire to my quarters with Dorian… and that he’d decide to stay.

 


	7. Inquisiting the Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between chapters 11 and 12 of _Fumbling_.

“Inquisitor, do you have a moment?”

When Josephine asks that the correct answer is always yes.  She stood in the doorway to her office, leaning against the frame.  “Is this about the Crestwood report?” I asked as I followed her into her office.  She’d positioned herself just outside of the War Room, making herself the gatekeeper between the main hall and the actual councils we held.  The room also had a back exit to the kitchens, and she could easily send orders for drinks and other refreshment for us and for visitors.

Her whole office was cozy and efficient; her windows let in sunlight most of the day.  On one wall, floor-to-ceiling shelves were lined with books.  I ambled over and scanned the titles:  _ Travels of a Chantry Scholar _ (by Brother Genitivi--a classic of contemporary history);  _ The Rebel Queen; Orlesian Nobility, volumes 1, 3, 4,  _ and  _ 6. _  I was sure she had either lent out volumes 2 and 5, or had them on order.  Behind her desk was a vault: not nearly as large as the one I’d seen in the lower levels of the keep, but definitely imposing.

“This is where I store copies of our treaties,” she explained.  “I like having them near at hand for reference.”

“You certainly have a great deal of references here.  Do you need more?  Do you need me to sign off on anything?” I asked, mostly teasing.  I’m just the man with the glowing hand; the real powerhouses of the Inquisition were easily my advisors.  They were top professionals in their fields.  Quite frankly, their sheer, shining competence was intimidating.

“No, but thank you.  If there is something, I’ll be certain to let you know.  Tea?  Coffee?”

So this was going to be longer than just a moment.  And a case where something stronger wouldn’t be appropriate.  So I agreed to coffee, which was a new thing I’d recently become addicted to since Josephine started having it imported from Antiva, and stood awkwardly staring at her books.

Leliana joined a moment later and my stomach and all other innards dissolved, leaving me empty and achy inside.  She closed the door behind her.  The coffee arrived and though it smelled like the Golden City itself, I didn’t touch it.  We sat around in front of the hearth, Josephine and Leliana chatting about the coffee and the weather, with me smiling awkwardly, occasionally nodding, waiting for the other boot to drop.

“I read the Crestwood reports,” Leliana began.  She dropped a cube of sugar in her coffee and took a quick sip.  “Yours and Iron Bull’s.”

“Not surprising he’d report,” I said.  “He told me he would be doing his own set of reports when we hired him on.”

She shook her head.  “I am aware.  He and I had a long discussion about his role with the Inquisition and have as much of an understanding as I am bound to get between a Qunari operative and our organization.”  I’m sure she and Bull had a deeper understanding than even that, as two hardened spies, but I didn’t press it.  “His report and your report differed though, and Josephine and I would like to discuss those discrepancies.”

“To ascertain the Iron Bull’s loyalty and veracity of course,” Josephine broke in.  Her portable writing board sat on the small table next to her chair, close to her coffee.  One wrong move would spill coffee all over her notes.  Andraste’s hairy ass it was so tempting.  “The Chargers arrived at Caer Bronach on this date, yes?”  She showed me her notes and I nodded.  “Hawke and Varric arrived this date.  Correct?”  I nodded again.  “There is a two-day gap between when they arrived and when you did with Dorian Pavus and the Iron Bull.”

“That is correct,” I said.  My voice only cracked once.

Leliana’s eyes narrowed.  “The Iron Bull’s report is correct then?  You did deviate from your course to Crestwood?  To Redcliffe?”

“Correct.”  I thought that nothing could be worse than when I was a child and my father would glare at me with baleful disappointment.  I was wrong.

But Leliana relaxed in her seat.  “I am pleased that you’ve confirmed the truth of Bull’s report.”

“He has no reason to lie,” I said.

“But do you?” Josephine asked, and any sense of relief that might have been seeping in dissolved again.  “Why did you deviate so far off course?”

My face was on fire.  I looked between Leliana and Josephine.  One had helped end the Blight, had served as the Left Hand of the Divine, and now served as spymaster for the fastest-growing organization in Thedas.  The other hailed from Antivan nobility and had trained as a diplomat, and brokered alliances with some of the strongest and most difficult people in the known world.  Both had trained as bards.  “There was… something that came up.”  Oh, if they knew the real truth of  _ that _ statement.

“Regarding Dorian Pavus,” Leliana guessed, and my silence was enough confirmation.

Josephine pulled out a sheaf of papers.  “This is what we have gathered on Dorian.  Scion to House Pavus of Qarinus, Altus class.  Only son of Halward Pavus and Aquinea Thalrassian Pavus.  His father is a Magister.”

“Which he told us when we recruited him,” I pointed out.  “I know Alexius was also a Magister, but Dorian isn’t, and he’s sworn he doesn’t want to ever be a Magister.”  I was proud of how calm my voice remained.

“Do you know why he was in Redcliffe when the Inquisition arrived?” Leliana asked.

I hadn’t been Inquisitor long, but had been with them all long enough to know that they never asked me questions they didn’t have an answer for.  I also realized they probably already knew everything that had happened between me and Dorian, courtesy of the Iron Bull. And  _ then _ I remembered that Bull was sending his reports to the Qunari, who had a tenuous at best relationship with Tevinter, and if the Inquisitor was cozying up with a Tevinter mage…

Leliana kept staring at me with her powder-blue eyes.  “He left Tevinter a couple years back and traveled,” I told her.  “He heard about the Conclave and was headed to Haven when the Breach happened.”  Leliana kept staring at me and my collar felt too tight.  Why did I even bother dressing formally around here?  I swallowed.  “Are you questioning his loyalty?”

“What reason did he give for needing to detour to Redcliffe on this trip?” Leliana asked.

When she and Cassandra had first interrogated me, Leliana had been the nice one.  This time I glanced (a bit guiltily) over at Josephine, but she just kept tapping her quill against the dossier on Dorian.  “It… it wasn’t his idea,” I confessed.  “It was mine.”

“That is… most unusual, Inquisitor,” Josephine said.  She pulled out another sheet of parchment and scribbled that down.  “While you are the Inquisitor and we trust your leadership--”

“Obviously you don’t, if you’re interrogating me like this,” I broke in.  She narrowed her eyes and I sighed.  “I’m sorry.  I know we were on a schedule, but Mother Giselle gave me a letter from Dorian’s family asking to meet in Redcliffe.  I figured it wouldn’t be too bad a detour, and Hawke and Varric could handle Crestwood, especially if the Chargers were already there.”  

“Mother Giselle?”  Leliana frowned a bit.  “What reason would she have to be in contact with a Tevinter Magister?”

Oh the things I wanted to say, but I was already on thin ice after snapping at Josephine.  “You would have to ask her why she’d see fit to put the Inquisitor into a potentially compromising situation,” I said at last.  

“Define compromising?” Josephine asked, leaning forward.

I told them both how she’d handed me her letter just before we departed, sticking it in my freaking saddlebag, of all places, and how Bull and I had agreed to accompany Dorian.  Of course there was the fear of an ambush, especially since we ended up meeting with Halward Pavus in an empty Redcliffe tavern, but he’d come alone to try and reconcile with his son.  “As for what happened with that, I didn’t listen,” I said.  “I’m no spy, and that was between the two of them.”  I had no loyalty to Mother Giselle, especially after the way she tricked me and tricked Dorian, putting the both of us--but  _ especially _ Dorian--in harm’s way.

“Will we be speaking with Mother Giselle later then?” Josephine asked, and Leliana nodded, lips pressed into a firm line.  I was pleased that she wasn’t very happy about Giselle’s actions.  “Thank you.  But as for what you chose to do about the Revered Mother’s letter…” she began, and my face burned.

“The Iron Bull made a few… observations about your interactions with Dorian,” Leliana helpfully mentioned.

“Of course he did.”  I stared at the sparking green mark on my hand.  I wished it could open up and swallow me whole.

“Am I to take it that his observations are accurate?” she asked, but she sounded much kinder than she had when she was grilling me just moments earlier.

I glanced at Josephine, who was trying not to smile, then to Leliana, who kept her face straight, but her eyes gave her away.  I slouched in my chair and ran my hand through my hair.  “Fine, yes, it’s true,” I confessed and wished I could dissolve right then and there.  “Do you have to interrogate Dorian, too?” I asked.

“Who says we haven’t already?” Josephine asked, professional and courteous as always, but there were teasing tones to her voice that made me redden all the more.

“This wasn’t supposed to go this way,” I told them.  I closed my eyes.  “So now is when you tell me to end it?  That it’s bad for the Inquisitor to be with a guy from Tevinter?”  It made me sick to say it, and immediately I wondered if I’d be able to do just that.  Already I was too head over heels for Dorian.

“It presents some difficulties,” Josephine admitted, and my stomach twisted. “Mostly with families who have offered marriage proposals.”

I straightened up.  “What?  You’re kidding.”  She shook her head and I couldn’t decide which was worse: that Bull had told Leliana and the Qunari about me and Dorian, or that there were legitimate marriage proposals from Fereldan and Orlesian families and their daughters.  “Just so you know, even if I hadn’t kissed Dorian it wouldn’t work out with a girl.”  Figured it was best to put that on the table.

Josephine finally giggled.  “No, no.  Regardless of the company you prefer, it would be best not to ally with a particular family via marriage.”  Her expression softened and she let her smile shine.  

“Was this Dorian’s idea?” Leliana asked, though not unkindly.

“No… wait, he reciprocated, and we both feel the same,” I said, tripping over my words a bit.  “I made the first actual move though.  He didn’t set out to seduce me.  Ugh, Maker’s  _ ass _ , that sounds awful.”  I pinched the bridge of my nose.

Leliana cracked a smile and couldn’t quite hide her chuckle.  “You’re nearly as bad as King Alistair was during the Blight,” she told me and my ears burned.  “Any time anyone asked him about Fianna he couldn’t stop stuttering.  They didn’t set out to find one another either, but sometimes these things bring people together in unexpected ways.  Though I admit I am glad to know that Dorian is trustworthy.”

“So… I’m not in trouble.”  I couldn’t help but feel like a naughty child, and wasn’t quite sure I felt any relief just yet.  

“You are the Inquisitor,” Josephine said, very diplomatically, I’ll add.  “We felt the need to understand Dorian’s motives, and his influence upon you.”

“If you ask Mother Giselle, it’s undue,” I provided helpfully.

“Oh I plan to ask Mother Giselle,” Leliana said.  Her pleasant smile was a tad frosty.  But her expression warmed once again.  “You are in a difficult position, Theodane.  You’ve become quite powerful nearly overnight.  People are bound to talk.  There will be gossip; not only that you’ve chosen another man over many very qualified noble women, but that he is a mage, and he is from Tevinter.”

I nodded.  Dorian had warned me about all of the above, almost between every kiss he gave me.  “He didn’t use blood magic on me, he didn’t put a spell on me, and I will submit to any templar examination to prove it,” I said.  Embarrassing, yes, but if it meant helping to keep Dorian above suspicion I would do it.

Leliana shook her head.  “That won’t be necessary.  Josephine and I can deal with the talk.  That’s our job,” she added.  “I’m sure Dorian has impressed upon you the need for discretion?”  

Only too often.  I nodded.

“You and Dorian have had ample time to get to know one another,” Josephine told me.  “Though to some outside of… and perhaps even within this organization would think this rather sudden.  Just give us some time to work this to our advantage.”

I didn’t like being a pawn; and my relationship with Dorian wasn’t a bargaining chip.  But these two knew what they were doing.  What did I know?  I wasn’t a born leader, and I was new to having a relationship as well.  So I just nodded.  “Thanks for not being mad at me,” I mumbled.  I just wanted to get out of here at this point, maybe run off and find Dorian and snuggle in a secluded alcove.

Leliana reached over and patted my hand and it was all I could do not to flinch.  “There’s nothing to be angry at.  Dorian is a lovely man, and none of us wish to see either of you get hurt.”

And oh, the potential for hurt was there, coming at us from all angles.  I took a deep breath and tried to relax.  Leliana and Josephine were looking out for us.  Leliana had promised a discussion with Mother Giselle.  Josephine was going to deflect the marriage proposals.  Bull was just doing his job, and doing what he’d told me he planned to do from the start.  None of this should have been a surprise to me.  And in the future, it wouldn’t be.

I finished off my coffee and thanked them for the talk.  I promised to be discrete and to avoid Mother Giselle until Leliana could talk with her.  Then I went out into Skyhold, but before I could seek out Dorian I found a secluded alcove where I could pull myself together again.


	8. Home for the Holidays

Back home in the solid city of Ostwick we always celebrated Wintersend.  So imagine my delight when Josephine informed me that not only would we be celebrating Wintersend, but we would also be celebrating Satinalia, and we would be sparing no expense.  “I drafted up this declaration of our celebration,” she told me, holding out her writing board.  “But of course your signature will make it official.”

“I still think you have more clout than I do, but if you want me to sign off I’ll do it.  I won’t say no to a party.”  I dipped the quill in the ink and managed not to drip any on the crisp declaration.  I didn’t even read it (which is a bad habit I have), just signed my name with a flourish.  I’d gotten good at signing my name, and yes, I enjoyed it to a degree.  I handed the board back to Josephine.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” she said, formal as always when not in her office or the war room.

“I have a name,” I said, like I always did, and she just smiled and took her leave, as she always did.  It had started with me being annoyed that no one could seem to remember my name, and her insistence on being professional; and then it had continued on as an act that made me look down to earth and in touch with the common man.  So many people still believed the Herald of Andraste nonsense.  While my advisors hadn’t encouraged that narrative, they hadn’t really _dis_ couraged it either.

With my blessing granted, decorations began appearing all over Skyhold within the next few days.  Pine garlands wound with red silk ribbon draped from the windows and twisted about railings.  Fiona’s mages took turns conjuring multi-colored wisps that settled into the garlands and hovered in the air, glowing snowflakes that didn’t fall.  Bright red potted plants were imported from northern Antiva and kept warm by regularly refreshed heating spells.  Fires crackled on hearths, and specially treated pinecones turned the flames blue and green and violet.

The surge of warmth and color put everyone in a good mood--how could it not, after all?  I hadn’t felt this giddy about a holiday since… well, in a very long time.  And when it started actually snowing, it was all Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana could do to keep me acting in a manner appropriate for my station (Josephine seriously said that) when in the public eye.  The problem was, I was almost always in the public eye.  “What happened to the Inquisitor of the Common People?” I challenged, and Josephine tossed up her hands and started speaking rapid-fire Antivan, and that was the end of that.

Later that night though I caught her smiling.

About the only person who didn’t seem thoroughly charmed by the entire holiday preparation was Dorian.  I thought maybe it was the snow, since he’s always complaining how cold it is in the mountains.“So _is_ it the weather?” I asked him at last.  We were cozied up in his room.  Snow fell in big, heavy flakes outside the leaded glass window, but inside his narrow bed was comfortable and the fire crackled merrily, courtesy of some good pine logs and Dorian’s magic.  I rolled over on my side to watch him at his writing desk, working on some missive or research report or other.  From this angle I could only see his profile, but with that view I saw the tightness in his jaw and a deliberately slow blink.

“I have been a bit melancholy of late,” he said at last.  He set down his quill and joined me, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting a hand on my leg.  Out in the field he usually wore his fitted, sturdy leather mage armor, with enchanted robes draped over it; when he fought, he moved as if dancing, and the fabric flowed with him.  But now, he wore simple fitted black trousers and a loose crimson shirt.  His dark hair was, for once, not perfectly styled.  This realization gave me a slight pang of delight.  We hadn’t been together long; sometimes there were still moments when we felt the need to keep up appearances, be on best behavior, look our best.

But Dorian looked casual, imperfect, and so very attractive _because_ of his imperfection. Just now I was seeing a side of him he never showed to anyone else.   “While I will confess that the weather is not to my liking…”  He paused thought a moment, fingers lightly squeezing my leg.  “Neither is growing old.”

I sat up and stared at him.  “Old?  You’re hardly _old_ , Dorian.”  Then it hit me: he’d never told me his age.  I knew he was older than me, but maybe it was just his sophistication and experience.  Me?  Just about everyone in the Inquisition was older than me.  “What brought this on?”

He scooted onto the bed and pulled his knees up to his chest.  For all his talk of feeling old, he looked young and vulnerable this way.  I scooted closer to him.  “Satinalia preparations have always meant nameday preparations in my family.”  His lips quirked into a small smile.  “Namely my nameday.”

“Dorian! Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, grabbing his hands.  

“When was _your_ nameday, Theodane?” He raised an eyebrow.

“End of Kingsway.  But you don’t get to hold that over my head, because we’d _just_ gotten back from Crestwood,” I pointed out.  “And I’ve had so much on my mind that I forgot and it wasn’t important.”  It really wasn’t.  The only time my nameday had really mattered was that time some years back that Gavriel brought me out for drinks and to a brothel.  “Why does this have you so out of sorts?” I asked him.

He shrugged, but didn’t let go of my hands.  “Satinalia was a big deal back home, but not in many other places where I’d traveled.  I missed it, but I understood.  And now with the decorations going up it reminds me a bit of home… and that my nameday comes around the corner.”

“How old are you going to be?” I asked him flatly.  I stared him in the eye.  When he looked away I gently turned his chin to make him face me again.  “It can’t be that awful, Dorian.”

He flopped backward.  “Thirty.  Are you happy?”

I laughed.  He groaned dramatically and covered his face with his hands.  I wriggled between him and the wall and rested my head on his chest.  “Dorian, that’s hardly old.  And the age gap doesn’t bother me.”

He stiffened.  “Just how much of a gap are we looking at?”

“Six years.”  Something unpleasant twisted in my gut.  “That’s… not a problem? Is it?”

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders.  “No.  I know age should be nothing more than a number.”

“Then why does thirty bother you so much?” I asked.  I was genuinely curious.  The only thing that bothered me about him being older than me was really just my own insecurity when faced with his confidence and worldly knowledge.  It was the same insecurity that I had when dealing with… well, everyone.  It was entirely my issue to work with, and I was trying _so hard_ not to let that get in the way: not just of being the Inquisitor, but in the way of what was growing between me and Dorian.

Dorian turned and kissed my forehead before staring at the ceiling again.  “I suppose it’s because this is the first real time when I have to face my nameday rather than ignore it in favor of debauched celebration.”

“Oh, if Krem and the Chargers have anything to say about it, there will be a lot of debauched celebrating going on,” I reassured him.  I wasn’t sure if the prospect was frightening or fun.

Dorian sighed yet again.  “It’s not the same as back in Tevinter.”

“Dorian… are you saying you’re homesick?” I asked.  I shouldn’t have been surprised; the constant chill in the mountains, the regular brushes with death, and the attitudes toward mages, but particularly Tevinter mages, probably got wearisome after a while.  

He pulled me into a kiss so intense it caught me off guard and left me breathless.  “Don’t mistake my homesickness for unhappiness,” he told me, his breath hot in my ear.  His teeth grazed my earlobe and I shivered.  “I’m quite happy here with you.”  When he kissed me again, I believed him.

But his comments stuck with me.  The Satinalia celebration loomed on the horizon, and though Dorian tried to keep up the appearance of holiday merriment, he clearly wasn’t dealing well with all of it.  I thought about him at night, when I attempted to stare at my ceiling; the rafters soared so high the ceiling was lost in shadow.  I wished he was there with me. I loved the big bed, but Dorian would make it so much better.  He still insisted on propriety out in the open, but behind closed doors he was happy to show me just how improper he was capable of being.

We didn’t have much time until the holiday or Dorian’s nameday, but luckily Leliana had amazing couriers and an extensive network.  I’d survived an interrogation from Josephine and Leliana regarding Dorian just a week or so after returning from Crestwood, and since that time they’d both been understanding and accommodating.  And when I told Leliana about why I required such speed and secrecy, she was most understanding.  She even smiled a little bit, and the knowing glint in her eyes made me blush.

In the meantime I spent the days (when I wasn’t in meetings) in comfortable quiet with Dorian in the library, or walking in the snowy courtyard.  He wrapped himself in heavy, fur-lined cloaks and wore fleece-lined boots, and needed to sit in front of the fire with hot tea afterward.  I humored him and draped blankets over his shoulders, or held his hands in mine to warm them.  Neither of us pointed out the irony that it was his heating magic that kept me from dying of cold after the avalanche.

This of course led me to wonder if, for all his wealth and privilege, he’d ever had someone truly care about _him_.

I didn’t tell him this though.  I just ordered more wine and a quiet dinner, and accidentally forgot to leave his room after he fell asleep that night.  He dozed off on the bed; I covered him up, I snuggled up to him for a few minutes, and then I fell asleep too.  I could have given Cole a run for his money with how quickly, quietly, and invisibly I got out of Dorian’s room when I realized it was dawn.

Most of that next day was spent in the war room, arguing about the impending trip to the Western Approach.  “I can command the armies from the road,” Cullen insisted.  “The bulk of the force may end up coming out west anyway.  Skyhold’s defenses are quite secure, and we’ve established a presence in Ferelden.”

“I see you’ve already worked it out, Commander,” Josephine said with a sniff, eyeing the maps rolled out over the war table.

“Come now, Josie, we’ve established a firm presence in the surrounding area, and it will be best for the Inquisitor to have Cullen along with him--if my reports of Venatori activity in the west are any indication.”  She folded her arms over her chest, ostensibly out of grim feelings about the Venatori.  

“I will take my leave then,” Josephine said without arguing further.  She didn’t look particularly happy about the unspoken decision, but honestly, I was glad to know Cullen would be coming with me.

“It’s settled then?” Cullen asked once Josephine was gone, and I nodded.  “Good.  We’ll want to be ready to head out shortly after the Satinalia celebration.  I don’t know how much more time we can was--I mean, delay our trip to the Western Approach.”

“It’s good for morale,” I called after him, and he smiled before closing the door behind him.  That left me and Leliana in the cavernous room.  “So?”

“You ask for the oddest things, Inquisitor, but luckily word of your dealings with Alexius gave us some favor in Minrathous.  Cautious, yes, but more than anyone would have thought to expect.”  She looked at me with a critical eye, but for once I didn’t feel awkward.  Maybe even borderline competent!  “And while the pastry chef has never made this recipe before, he is eager to try his hand.”

“This is great news.  Kind of a relief, even,” I said with a nervous chuckle.

Leliana’s expression was soft and kind.  “You truly care about him.”

I shrugged.  “Yeah, I guess I do.”  I couldn’t fight the grin breaking through.  It was more than infatuation and attraction, even though he _was_ amazingly attractive in an almost supernatural way.  Sometimes I looked at him and found it hard to believe someone so handsome could truly exist, and moreover, that he would want to be with me as much as I wanted to be with him.  It was more than the fact Dorian was the first man to return my affections--not that I’d had many opportunities before meeting him to try.  Sometimes I wondered what he saw in me, and then I decided to just go with it, just take deep breaths and hope for the best.

Like with Dorian’s nameday.

I didn’t make a big deal about it in the morning.  We had a quiet, simple breakfast up in his library nook, and after that, since it wasn’t snowing, he accompanied me to the practice range.  He sat on a hay bale, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak.

“Don’t you think we should go in?” he asked after a bit and I looked up, startled.  “It’s been well over an hour and my poor tootsies are near frozen,” he added with a pout.  “However, I’d be more than happy to reenact this in the summer,” he told me.

“I lose track of time when I practice,” I confessed.  I dashed down range to collect my arrows and stashed them back in my quiver.  “I’m sorry you’re cold, but I’m glad you were here with me.”  It did mean a lot that he came to watch me, even in the cold.  Because I’m not a mage I sometimes worry that I bore Dorian.  “Let’s get you warmed up,” I suggested, and we headed inside.

Much as I would have loved to set up in my quarters I knew Dorian wasn’t quite comfortable with that idea yet, so we headed back to his smaller room.  He opened the door and stopped.  His hand fell to his side and after a moment he turned to look at me.  “How…”

I nudged him forward into his room and closed the door behind us.  I slipped the cloak from his shoulders before shedding my own.  “Being the Inquisitor has some good benefits,” I told him.  I pulled the cork from a bottle of wine--Tevinter red--and handed it to him.  “This bottle is to make up for the one we couldn’t share at Haven,” I explained.  

Dorian took the bottle sniffed the deep vintage.  The expression on his face was hard to read: mostly because it kept changing, and because he was trying so hard to cover up what he was feeling.  At last he took a long pull straight from the bottle, then stood with his eyes closed for a very long time.  I tried not to hold my breath, and definitely didn’t say anything; I just wanted him to enjoy this moment.  Finally he handed me the bottle and turned to look at the spread on the portable sideboard.

Normally dinner in Skyhold is whatever we can get from the area around us.  Lots of rustic dishes that tend to be hearty and gamey, that sort of thing.  Our growing influence and connections had allowed me to procure some nuts and produce directly from Tevinter, and our chefs had done their best to turn it into the recipes Leliana’s scouts had uncovered and sent back.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Famished,” he answered, but wasn’t looking at the food.  He stared at me to the point I almost squirmed.  “Why?” he asked at last.  He picked up a nut and pried the shell apart with a mindless ease.  Huh.  So that’s how it was done.

“Because I… well, I want you to be happy, Dorian,” I told him.  That only covered about half of it, but I don’t think either of us were quite ready for me to let him in on the other half, especially this early on.  “You were so unhappy about your nameday, and about missing Satinalia at home… I thought if you can’t be home for Satinalia, I’d bring some home to you.”

He surveyed the small platter of exotic meats, the bowls of nuts and candied fruit, a soft, sweet wheel of cheese, and a dish of baked spiced pears next to a small honey-nut cake.  “You did this for me.  Because you wanted to.”  I nodded.  “I should be protesting the gesture, and yet no one’s thought to make me spiced pears since I was a boy.”  When he looked at me his eyes were shining.  “Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”

“If it means you’ll stop sulking, then I’m glad to have done it,” I teased, though I was so pleased at his reaction that I pulled him into a tight hug and gave him a kiss.  He tasted of fruity wine.  “I’ve also cleared my schedule.  I’m entirely at your disposal for the rest of the day.”

“Entirely?”  He raised an eyebrow.  “That could be dangerous.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep notes for my next nameday.”  I gave him a peck on the cheek.  “First, let’s eat.”

“Now I see why they named you Inquisitor,” Dorian said with a grin.

The official Skyhold Satinalia celebration paled in comparison to our quiet afternoon and evening together, and that was fine.  It was something special shared between the two of us, and that was worth more than all the pine garlands, red potted plants, and debauched adventures in all the world.


	9. Nothing to Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theo never spoke much about what happened before his first trip to Val Royeaux, and his subsequent journey to Redcliffe to meet with the mages. Those first chaotic days, however, were full of far more turmoil than he originally let on.

The forward camp was, for lack of a better word, a mess.  I followed Cassandra and Solas, and Varric brought up the rear.  Even if I’d wanted to run, I couldn’t.  Then again, I’d had ample opportunities before now, and I had remained.  I was inextricably linked to the Breach and the Fade rifts, as Solas had proven.  The Breach roiled overhead, a swirling acidic maelstrom that howled in a way no natural storm could (and I’d experienced my fair share, growing up on the coast).  Here on the ground, the camp wasn’t in much better shape.

Barrels and crates of supplies were stacked up, and some Chantry types were using other crates as makeshift writing desks.  One such man looked up and his face, craggy with frown lines, seemed to grow craggier when he spied Cassandra.  He stared at her from under bushy eyebrows, his eyes narrow, and then he stood up straighter when he saw me.

“Bind him,” he ordered and two templars shoved Cassandra, Solas, and Varric out of the way and grabbed me by the shoulders.

“I’m trying to--”

“Silence,” he snapped, and nodded to another templar who took the standard issue bow I’d found.

I tried to wrest my arms out of those metal grips, but the hold only tightened.  “Cassandra, what’s happening?” I asked, even though I’d been ordered to silence by the man in Chantry vestments.

“I said _silence,_ ” he shouted.  He came out from behind his ‘desk’.  One templar held me while another rummaged for something to bind my hands again.  “What is the meaning of this, Seeker?”

“I should ask you the same thing, _Chancellor_ ,” she said, casually spitting over the side of the bridge.

“This prisoner must be readied for transport to Val Royeaux.”

Val Royeaux.  The capital of Orlais, home of the Grand Cathedral of the Chantry.  In Ostwick, the most anyone usually hoped for was a trip to Kirkwall; and then when the Apostate leveled _that_ , it became a pilgrimage site.  The Chancellor looked me up and down and sneered.  I glanced down at my hand, glowing and sparking so… well, greenly, and realized that to him, I was no better than Anders.

“And what good can he do in Val Royeaux?” Cassandra was asking.

“He’ll face execution.  What did you expect?”

And then I began to pull at the hard hands holding me in earnest.  “Stop struggling, and this will be easier,” one templar said, his voice hollow in his cylindrical helmet.

“I didn’t do it.  I don’t remember what happened, but I didn’t do it!”  I slipped my left arm free, just as the sky groaned with another expansion of the Breach.  The same pain blossomed in my hand and shot through my body, driving me to my knees.  “Please, I didn’t do it.”  I looked up at the Chancellor through teary eyes.  I held my burning hand to my chest.  What I didn’t tell him was that I didn’t think we’d even make it to Val Royeaux before this thing killed me.

“Our Most Holy is dead, along with a cadre of other important members of the Chantry.”  The Chancellor spat.  I think he meant to spit on me, which was perhaps even more humiliating than being viewed as a murderer.  “ _Someone_ must answer for that, and since _you_ walked away from it, it _will_ be you!”

I’d love to say I told him off, that I was full of the flip, sarcastic commentary I later became known for.  I could only stare at him, at his angry craggy face, as I realized he _wanted_ to see me hanging.  And he wasn’t the only one: the templars surrounding us, all the villagers in Haven, and maybe even Cassandra if we didn’t find a plausible explanation for why I of all people had survived.

“Enough.”  Cassandra spun around.  “Release him.”

“On whose authority?”

“Mine.”

The grip loosened a bit as the templars looked between Cassandra and the Chancellor.  I was no stranger to people talking about me, in front of me, as if I wasn’t even there. And yet, no one had ever casually discussed whether or not I deserved to be executed before.  That would be something: miraculously walk away from an explosion, only to be hanged in front of all of Orlais.

If they didn’t torture me first.  The Chancellor was angry; he was grieving.  He needed a target, and he needed to make sense out of the senseless.  I didn’t want to hang, or to lose my head; but I wanted even less to endure the trek to Val Royeaux with this man.  At least Cassandra would give me a quick death if she deemed it necessary.

Not that I wanted it to come to that, either.

“You have no authority here!” The Chancellor’s face went red.  “How dare you--”

Cassandra held her hand out to me.  “I am the Right Hand of the Divine,” she told him.  “You, _Chancellor_ Roderick, are a glorified clerk.  Are you going to go into the mountain pass and find missing soldiers?  Are you going to head up to the temple site?  No?  Then stand aside.”

“He remains here,” Roderick said, still unwilling to back down.

“Trevelyan’s marked hand is the key to this,” Cassandra told him.  “He goes where I go.”

I dared a glance backward and saw Varric trying to hide a smile, while Solas’s eyes were trained on the Breach and his mouth was set in a grim line.  “Seeker, we can’t afford many more delays,” he said, and Roderick’s ire fell on him instead of me.

“And you’ll let an _apostate_ tell you how to proceed?  You have fallen far indeed, Seeker,” Roderick told her as he tried to recover some of his pride.

I expected Cassandra to hit him, but she had remarkable restraint.  “Says the man too blind to see that we cannot proceed as normal with such an abnormal situation,” she retorted.  She pushed past him, slamming her shoulder into his and knocking him out of the way.  I followed before he could detain me.  While Cassandra was easily more intense than he was, Roderick scared me in a way that, at the time, I didn’t understand.

Looking back now, I realize that he wasn’t just grieving and angry.  There was a calculating gleam in his eyes as he watched us pass.  Men served the Chantry in various capacities, but could only progress so far up the ranks.  Those who didn’t join the templar ranks could only hope to be Brothers, sworn Chanters, or Chancellors.  If Roderick delivered the alleged murderer to Val Royeaux, maybe he could have changed that.  Maybe he could have forged new ground or started new traditions.  But the thought that he would have had no qualms about putting me to death to advance his own position still makes me sick.

Varric nudged me and I jumped, heart pounding as I looked for templars that the chancellor had sent after us anyway.  But he just handed me the bow I’d been using, and gave me a gruff pat on the shoulder.  “I know all this shit is weird,” he told me, “but I was there in Kirkwall when it all started.  I know you’re nothing like Anders, and I think the Seeker knows that, too.”

“Thanks,” I told him, and I did mean it.  Varric and Cassandra seemed to have some sort of history, and I trusted him, if only because he was treating me like a normal person: not a criminal, not a magical curiosity.  It helped dull the sting of Roderick’s treatment, though my stomach still clenched up whenever I remembered the spark in his eyes when he said I needed to be executed.  I glanced down at my marked hand as we trudged up the mountain pass.  I was probably going to die anyway, at the rate the Breach was expanding.

We entered a series of tunnels that would bring us up to the temple site (or what was supposedly left of it).  The Breach must have expanded again, because fire shot up my arm and through my body.  “Do something,” Cassandra snapped, while Solas stood over me (because I had fallen over) and just watched.

I rolled over onto my left side, hoping the icy cold stones would help cool the burning.  I would have rather felt the ache from my earlier beatings than this yet again.  My blood roared in my ears, the same stormy pitch as the Breach in the sky over the mountains.  I couldn’t block it out and I couldn’t stop feeling.  For a long moment that was all there was: the Breach was part of me.

As it subsided I managed to crack my eyes open.  Solas sat on his heels next to me, both hands clutching his staff for balance.  “I cannot make it stop,” he told me.  “But the largest of the rifts is just ahead at the temple.  If you can close it, that may buy you some more time, and possibly even a bit of relief.”  He got to his feet.  “Can you make it that far?”

I bit my bottom lip and tried to feel the normal aches instead of the residual magical pain.  I tried to picture the faceless templar beating on me as I hung helplessly before him; Chancellor Roderick spitting at me, and only missing due to sheer dumb luck; and worst of all, my father, and what he would be thinking when news reached him that I was at the heart of all of this--assuming it hadn’t reached him already.

Father hadn’t been pleased that I was less than excited to attend the Conclave in the first place.  There were many lectures about what a ‘privilege’ it was, and how serving the Chantry was my ‘duty’.  If it had been up to him I would be a full Brother, maybe even on track to become a Chancellor, by now.

If it meant proving them all wrong about me, I would make it as far as the temple.  Varric offered his hand and helped me to my feet.  We emerged from the tunnels, squinting in the bright daylight.  The cold air held the scent of pine and smoke and an acrid smell I couldn’t place.  The closer we got to the temple the more the air buzzed and crackled and a metallic tang settled on my tongue.  The wind sweeping through the temple was hot--very strange against the mountain snows, which melted in rivulets around the pathway.

“Take your time, Trevelyan,” Cassandra said.  She paused at the top of the last small rise and waited for me.

I had never seen anything so thoroughly destroyed.  The stones of the temple walls, the ones that still stood, were blackened and in some places even melted like candle wax.  Ash and cinder floated on the hot breeze.  Red crystals the size of a grown man protruded from the ground, giving off a bloody haze.  And worst of all: petrified remains, recognizable as human, but that was about it.

Arms reached for the heavens in unanswered prayer.  Blackened jaws hung open in silent screams.  All faced away from the ruins of the temple.

Behind me, Varric gave a low whistle.

There was no telling mage or templar, human or elf.  There was just death.  Violent, fiery, and final.  And then a memory: “ _Denounce the violence of the templars; order us to re-establish ourselves as protectors of the faith.”_ Said so earnestly, yet with such weariness.  Uncle Cadan had stood before his brothers and sisters of the templar order and implored the Divine to denounce the violence, only to fall to violence himself.

At that point I honestly had no recollection of why I alone walked… well, that’s a bit of a stretch.  Why I alone stumbled away from this.  I was nobody, and hadn’t even wanted to be there in the first place.  My uncles were good men, truly faithful men who wanted to do right by the Maker in His sight.  They’d never return to Ostwick.  My father would realize they’d been killed in the explosion, and would be among those who truly believed I’d done it.

They didn’t deserve this end.  No one did.  I sat down in the ash and buried my face in my hands.  Bright green light shone through my eyelids.  My chest tightened and it was hard to breathe between that and the awful air.

Cassandra’s boots crunched on the gravel.  “There is more to see,” she said softly.  “And another rift.  Solas speculates that if you close it--”

“If I close it?” I asked without looking at her.  “There are no guarantees?”

“You wield a form of magic no one understands,” she told me, but her voice was even.  “Made all the more miraculous because you are no mage.  I can guarantee you nothing, except that you _will_ get a trial.”

I nodded because I didn’t trust myself to speak.  The magnitude of the destruction around and above reminded me just how insignificant I was, but Cassandra’s words seemed to give me a significance I didn’t want.  What would be worse: a token trial where my guilt was already determined, or being torn apart by the Breach?

“The largest of the rifts is just ahead,” Solas said, pointing with his staff.  “You have nothing to lose by making an attempt.”

He was right; either way I was dead.  It was just a matter of if I wanted Chancellor Roderick to be the last face I saw before I went.  Spite is a powerful motivator, so I got to my feet and struck off through the rubble.  I kept my eyes forward, trying not to see the petrified bodies.  I walked through a hole blown through the remainder of the wall and hopped down onto a ledge.  My hand flared up again, but not as painfully as when the Breach expanded.  It tingled and shone brightly in response to the massive rift hovering and wavering over the center of a huge crater that had been blown in the earth.

“Watch where you step,” Varric warned.  “This is red lyrium.  How did red lyrium get _here?”_

“Perhaps the magic of the Breach corrupted any preexisting lyrium deposits beneath the temple?” Solas theorized, while I concentrated on avoiding the sizzling crystals, all while trying not to twist an ankle or go rolling down the embankment.  The metallic magical tang set my teeth on edge.

And just when shit couldn’t get any weirder (to use Varric’s terminology) a voice boomed out, “Now is the hour of our betrayal.”  It was a deep voice, so certain and cold that in spite of the heat radiating from the red lyrium I felt a chill.  “Keep the sacrifice still.”

“Help!” called the echo of a woman’s voice.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.  Or… my voice did.  An echo of myself, words I didn’t remember saying.  The Breach expanded once more; here in the center of everything, it left me feeling like my skin was all that held me together, and that was tenuous at best.  It didn’t pass and I thought maybe this was death: loud and violent, feeling like I was being ripped apart.

When I managed to open my eyes again I was on my back, staring up at the sky.  The sight of the Breach overhead made me nauseous.  Cassandra knelt down next to me.  “Most Holy cried out to you for help,” she said with a sense of wonder in her voice.  “Come.  When this is over I will swear before all of Val Royeaux what I heard.  I believe your innocence.”

“What… what do I need to do?”  I propped myself up on my elbows.

“They are bringing in reinforcements to deal with any demons,” Solas explained.  “You will need to reopen this rift, and then close it properly.”

I wanted to laugh, but it came out as a dry cough.  “I don’t even know how to close them.  I just do it.”

Solas smiled.  “Then just do that.  Let the magic guide you.”

I wondered if that’s what it was to be a mage: to have a power that was part of you, and to just instinctively _know_ what to do with it.  I looked at the wavering rift and then at my hand.  “I’ve got nothing to lose,” I said, and their silence confirmed it.  

It was a strange realization.  It should have been freeing; in a way it was even more frightening.  But Cassandra believed me and she would clear my name.  My family wouldn’t think I was a coward or a murderer.

No one comforted me; there was no comfort to give.  I either tried this and it worked, or didn’t try and ended up dead and the world over anyway.  Still, I heard the clatter of rubble behind me and knew Cassandra, Solas, and Varric followed.  This was the closest I’d gotten to a rift.  I stared up at it, through it, into the green light of the world beyond.  As a non-mage, the closest I could ever come to the Fade would be dreams, and that had been fine by me.

Shapes floated past the translucent acid-green barrier: demons. And I was supposed to _reopen_ this and let them out?  I looked over at Solas, who nodded in encouragement and pointed at the rift with his staff.  I held up my hand.  Nothing happened.  “Focus on opening it,” Solas told me.  “Your mark is a key.”

I held my palm toward the rift and turned it just a bit and thought about the act of opening a door.  My hand itched; then my arm buzzed,and a jet of light burst forth and slammed into the rift.  The force of the connection almost knocked me back, but I kept my footing.  Cassandra shouted something, and then the first demons floated down from the rift.

Some were the dark shades and wispy wraiths we’d fought through on the way to the camp.  But then a blob of jelly-like flame fell to the ground and turned what could be considered its eyes upon me.

I broke the connection to the rift and dove behind a pile of rock.   _Let the magic guide me.  Let the soldiers work on the demons_.  Still, when I looked that blob of flame was coming for me.  I grabbed the standard military issue bow I’d been using, nocked and arrow, and shot at it.  It made the demon angrier, but it stopped suddenly.  A sheen of blue frost covered it.  “Go for the rift! Close it!” Solas called, and I dashed back toward the rift.  

This time when I made the connection I was ready for it.  The sounds of fighting around me scared me, to be completely honest.  I’d love to say I was fearless; but concentrating was so hard because I was afraid that at any moment I’d be gored by a demon.  Those claws would be the end of me, as I wasn’t wearing any armor.  Even if I had been, what good would armor do against a demon?

The rift shifted and groaned; the amorphous fiery forms screamed.  Solas swept his staff around and made a barrier over us, before firing off another round of ice at the demons.  My arm shook as something inside the rift fought its way to the gate between worlds.  “I can’t hold it back,” I called to Solas and Cassandra.  They yelled for me to keep trying, but whatever it was, was too big.  My connection broke and the force blasted me backward.

I rolled out of the way and hid behind a pile of rubble and ash.  Something laughed: a terrible, awful laugh that filled the air over the whine of the rift.  When I dared to look I saw a hulking spiky thing towering over Cassandra, Solas, and Varric.  Cassandra shouted at the gathered soldiers to start hitting it with all they had.  “Trevelyan!  Close the rift!” she shouted.  She spun around and slammed a demon with her shield, then kept spinning and drove the point of her sword into a wraith.  I was forgotten again.

Cassandra _trusted_ that I would do it, and that I _could_ do it.  I don’t think anyone had had that level of confidence in me before, made all the more significant now because no one understood what I could do.

Varric and the other archers took on the big demon; it held a whip of lightning in its spiked hand and it laughed whenever it lashed at someone.  I closed my ears to the screams of those it caught.  If I didn’t even try then worse things would happen to more people.  I slipped in and around piles of rubble until I had a good angle at the rift.  I clenched my left hand once and then focused the mark on the rift again.  This time I imagined I was using the line of green light to pull the doorway closed.

It resisted; and even worse, it tried to pull me toward the Fade.  My feet slid over the gravel.  I couldn’t break the connection.  It was terrifying, even more than the huge demon that Cassandra fought as if it were no bigger than a nug.  The rift dragged me toward the light, where demons clawed at the edges of reality and clambered about to be the first to maul me.

I focused on the connection.  I was the one in control here.  I pulled at the thread of light.  I tugged at it.  I took a deep breath, clenched my hand, and yanked at it as hard as I could.

I didn’t die.  Obviously.  But for a very long moment I thought I had.

By very long moment I mean the three days I spent convulsing and feverish in a cabin in Haven.  By rights I should be dead; but when I finally regained not just consciousness, but awareness, I was very much alive.  My hand was still very much glowing, but it didn’t hurt; just an annoying tickle in my palm.  I wasn’t nearly as filthy as I’d been up at the temple site, and I was wearing clothing that wasn’t tattered or dirty.

My ears and face burned--someone had had to get me cleaned up, and the thought of being completely unaware of any of that happening was mortifying.  I lay there for a long while, staring up at the exposed rafters of the cabin and wondering if I’d be expected to show my face in public, and knowing that someone out in said public had seen quite a bit more than just my face.

The question was answered by an elf who nearly shat herself when she realized I was conscious.  “I’m sorry ser!” she exclaimed, falling to her knees and prostrating herself.  “I didn’t realize… I don’t mean to offend… I mean…”

“You’re fine,” I told her, and I meant it.  I sat up.  “And… I think I’m fine too.  You can get up,” I added, when it became clear that she was waiting for my permission.  

“The Seeker asked that you go to the Chantry as soon as you were able,” she told me, scurrying around the cabin and trying to tidy up, but making more of a mess as her shaking hands just knocked things over.  Every so often she flashed a nervous glance at me, so instead I just stared at my hand until she slipped out of the cabin, leaving me alone, and leaving the both of us far more comfortable.

I got out of bed, and surprisingly felt pretty steady on my feet.  Someone had gathered up some things that looked like they could fit me.  The boots fit well enough, and the coat was only a little roomy.  I turned up the collar and jammed my hands in the pockets once I was outside in the sunlight.  Overhead the Breach still spun like a supernatural hurricane, but the violence seemed to have abated.

I’d woken in a bed in a cabin, and not the Chantry dungeon again, so that was a good sign.  Still, I kept my head down on the walk to the Chantry. Someone must have been keeping a lookout though, because people--villagers, soldiers, children--came out and lined the pathway. I glanced side to side; they stood and watched me pass.  Some had a hand over their heart.  Others murmured as I passed.  “The Herald of Andraste,” someone whispered, and I wished the Breach would swallow me whole.  

The crowd thinned as I approached the Chantry, where Cassandra stood with Leliana, a (rather attractive) man in armor, and a very ruffley woman whose sharp gaze assessed my horrible posture (which made me want to slouch more), my messy hair, my flushed cheeks… how completely uncomfortable I was being watched like this.

“Welcome, Trevelyan,” the man said, and introduced himself as Captain Cullen.  Yes, I found the Captain attractive, because he was, in a rugged way, all the way down to the scar on his upper lip.  He led me toward the back of the Chantry.

“Or shall we say Herald?” asked the ruffled woman, who introduced herself as Josephine Montilyet.

“My name is Theodane,” I told her.  Yes.  I was that puzzled.  You have to recall I’d been through quite a bit by that point.

“Sweet Andraste,” Josephine muttered, and scribbled a few notes down on a portable writing board that I would soon learn she carried everywhere.  It had a candle stand and a place for a small inkwell.  But she was smiling, and her hazel eyes had a sparkle that I would also soon learn meant that she liked a challenge.  And I was a challenge indeed.

“They are calling you the Herald of Andraste,” Leliana explained as we entered an antechamber that had been set up as a makeshift conference room.  “You stopped the Breach from expanding quite as rapidly; at least, it is no longer spewing demons.  Combine that with what people saw when you first fell from the Fade… they believe you have been touched by Andraste and are her chosen.”

She watched me with calculating eyes, arms crossed over her chest.  “I don’t recall what happened,” I finally said, which was true.

“Do you deny you’ve been sent by Andraste?” Cassandra asked.

“Is this a test?” I asked.  I crossed my arms over my own chest and faced off against the former left and right hands of the Divine.

“Stop, this instant!”  Our standoff ended just as abruptly as it began and we all groaned.  Chancellor Roderick stood in the doorway.  He puffed up his chest and put his hands on his hips and lifted his chin just a bit; but even slouching I was still taller than he was, and even without trying Cassandra was more imposing.  And this time she had Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine lined up behind her, all focusing piercing gazes on Roderick.

To his credit, he didn't back down.  “I tolerated your behavior at the forward camp because we were in a time of emergency,” he said.  His voice didn’t shake; he truly believed what he was saying.  “But this is beyond the pale.  This man will be on the next carriage to Val Royeaux!”  He pointed at me and I hate to admit it, but I slouched even more. “He is no Herald of Andraste, and I will _not_ abide heresy in the house of the Maker!”

“This is not heresy,” Cassandra snapped.  She turned and grabbed a thick book.  She dropped it on the wooden table with an echoing thump.  “Do you know what this is, Chancellor?”

He leaned forward to get a better glimpse--he still hadn’t quite fully entered the chamber.  I still don’t know if he expected I would just follow him out, meekly accepting and anticipating my own execution.

“Of course he doesn’t, Cassandra,” Leliana said in her musical voice.  She gave Roderick a wide eyed look and pouted _just_ a little bit, just enough for anyone to know exactly what she thought of him.  “That is the Most Holy’s directive she entrusted to _us_.”  She leaned a little toward Cassandra.  

Cassandra opened the book.  “Divine Justinia knew things might come to this.  Her final instruction was for us to call the Inquisition.”

Roderick’s breath hissed in.  “Impossible.  You don’t have the authority!”

“I do.  Right here, in the writing of the Most Holy herself.”

“And what of him?” Roderick asked.  His finger stabbed the air as he pointed at me.

“For good or ill, he walked out of the Fade and has the ability to close the rifts; no one else can, not even Solas with his knowledge of them,” Cassandra told him.  “Trevelyan is integral to this.  You have no authority here, Chancellor.”

“That’s your cue to leave,” Cullen added.  He took a step forward, and Roderick stepped back.  

“Val Royeaux will hear of this,” he threatened, before stomping away.

“Will that be a problem for me?” I asked once he’d left the Chantry.  I think part of me was afraid he could hear me, like some bogeyman in a children’s story.

Cassandra snorted--something I realized she did a lot of.  For the former Right Hand of the Divine, she seemed to have some very derogatory views of the Chantry hierarchy.  At least I thought that at first; later, when I got to know her more and become friends with her, I realized she had a vision of the Chantry that wasn’t all politics and jockeying for position, one that put the people first.  This first step, calling the Inquisition and putting people like Roderick in their places, just solidified her stance.  And, truth be told, it helped us get things done that we wouldn’t have been able to otherwise.

Oh, there was a good bit of grumbling in those first few days.  Roderick had a small band that followed him everywhere, usually trailing me at a distance like a gaggle of geese, angry that I had no scraps for them.  I tried to ignore him.  I would duck into the tavern sometimes, which could buy me an hour or two, depending on who was buying me drinks.  I acquainted myself with Cullen’s captain of the archers, and that helped me bide time while gears turned that I could not see.

For someone so integral to this world-changing Inquisition (seriously--there hadn’t been one for over 800 years, and _that_ Inquisition led to the schism between Templars and Seekers), I was relatively unimportant.  I worked with the weaponsmith to get a bow that would do more damage than the flimsy hunting bow I’d found in the gorge, and even more than the standard army issue bows.  I went to the tavern and hid in a corner.  I laid on my narrow bed in my one-room cabin at night and stared at my glowing hand, wondering just what it was, what had caused it, and why it had chosen me of all people.  I wasn’t anybody; that Conclave had boasted the Divine; Grand Clerics, Revered Mothers, Chancellors, Knight-Lieutenants…

It was one day while I hid out in the tavern, sipping a beer, that Leliana slipped into the chair across from me.  “You’ve been elusive,” she said, holding up two fingers for Flissa, the barkeep, to see.  Within a moment two more mugs of beer had been set on the table, and Flissa left us.

“I’m trying to keep a low profile.”  Not necessarily untrue.

She cocked her head to the side.  “Do you still fear Chancellor Roderick?  Or is it the notoriety,” she added when I didn’t say anything in response to the first question.

“I’m not used to being noticed at all,” I confessed, because those cornflower-blue eyes, which looked so soft and innocent, still pierced through me and I knew she would be able to tell if I was lying.  “I’m--”

“The youngest child and third son of Bann Alick Trevelyan of Ostwick,” she told me.  “Your history is…”

“Unimpressive,” I finished.  “You can say it.  I won’t be offended, because it’s true.”

“That level of honesty will impress some, and others will find it off-putting,” she said, leaning back in her chair and sipping her beer more daintily than beer usually warranted.  “We are playing a risky game, but it is what the Most Holy would have wanted, so I will take the risks if necessary.  Will you?”  Those pale blue eyes bored into me again.

“I have no other choice at this point.”  I stared down at my hand, pulsing softly.  Sometimes it hurt a bit, though the Breach expansions had stopped.  Solas said we had to close the Breach, and sooner rather than later.  Even if I could survive demon attacks and venomous Chantry personnel, the mark would eventually kill me.

“Will you do it because you want to, or because you have to?”

“Does it really matter why I’m doing it?” My tone was sharper than I’d intended, and I sighed.  I pushed my hair off my forehead.  “Sorry.  I’m just not sure how to be… this.  A Herald.  Fuck, I’m not sure how to be _noticed,_ ” I said with a harsh laugh.  I took a drink before I could open my mouth and embarrass myself again.  Leliana didn’t just watch me; she studied me, the way a hunter does prey, and I had to remind myself that these people weren’t my friends.  They didn’t have me or my interests at heart; that giant green hole in the sky had thrown us all together.

Leliana only finished off her beer and signalled for another round, and I hoped she wasn’t trying to get me drunk in the hopes that I’d say more that would put my already tenuous position in further jeopardy.  But when the beers arrived she pulled out a roll of parchment and a travel quill and inkwell.  “As the Spymaster, Inquisition correspondence comes and goes through me.  I happened to notice that no correspondence had gone out to Ostwick as of yet.”

“You know my unimpressive history.  This shouldn’t be surprising.”  I eyed the writing implements warily.

Her expression softened a bit.  “It isn’t.  It was merely an observation.  I thought, given the circumstances and the way rumors will start to make their way around our world, you may wish to tell your family the truth.”

I laughed again.  “I’m having trouble believing all of it, so I doubt they’d believe me.  Or maybe I will.  My father is nearly as pious as they come.”  Which made my stomach knot up, just thinking about telling him that his youngest, easily _least_ pious child was being called the Herald of Andraste.  Not that I doubted the stories of Andraste and the Maker; I just didn’t find any comfort or guidance in them the way my family did.

“I’ll leave these here and let you make your choice,” Leliana finally said.  She downed the rest of her beer and patted the parchment.  “What you believe is your choice, Theodane.  But what people believe about you isn’t something you can control.”

“Thank you for the drinks,” I said instead.  I didn’t tell her how much I appreciated her not trying to convince me that all of this was the Maker’s will, and that she didn’t force me to contact my family.

I finished my drink and stared at the materials on the table.  I couldn’t control what people thought about me, and that included my parents.  They’d never thought much of me anyway; why try to convince them now?  I gathered up the parchment, quill, and inkwell, and brought them up to the bar with my mug.  “Can you see these returned to Sister Leliana?” I asked Flissa.

“Of course,” she said with a smile.  “Not in a writing mood?”

“Hard to write when you have nothing to say,” I told her, and headed back to my cabin.

* * *

 

And then came the day that we got our first response: a Chantry Mother by the name of Giselle was tending to the casualties caught in the mage and templar fighting in the Hinterlands of Ferelden, and wished to meet with “Andraste’s Herald”.  I almost protested, but Leliana caught my eye and held it for a moment and I remembered what she’d said.  I couldn’t control what people thought of me.

I stared at the map laid out on the table while everyone else stared at me.  If I set foot in Orlais, I was sure Roderick would ensure my arrest and subsequent execution.  But we had no footing with either the mage or the templar factions in Ferelden.  Right now this Mother Giselle was our best bet.  I took a deep breath and placed my palms on the table, so no one would see my hands shaking.

“I’ll take a small team.  How long will it take to outfit me, Cassandra, Varric and Solas?”

“We can be ready by tomorrow,” Cullen and Josephine said at the same time.

“I can send a raven to my lead scout in the Hinterlands now,” Leliana offered.

I nodded once.  “It’s settled.  Tomorrow we head into Ferelden.”

I suppose the rest is, as they say, history.  Whether it’s good history or bad still remains to be determined; but like Leliana said so long ago, I can’t control how people will perceive me.  So good or bad doesn’t matter; all that matters is that it is my history, and in that one explosive moment I gained the voice, choice, and future I’d never had before, all because I had nothing to lose.


End file.
